Tampering With Mail Clerks Is Illegal
by Kita Kitsune
Summary: ON HIATUS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. Unauthorized opening, inspection or tampering of mail is considered a federal offense and thus punishable by law. One wonders if this statute applies to the employees, as well. : College AU, US/UK/US main, Giripan, RusAm, PruCan, others. : Language & BL
1. September

**_This is AU. Really AU. So AU that some characters' names have been changed. Don't like it? Go read something else!_**

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of its characters. Those belong to Himeruya Hidekaz-sensei, who made a lot more out of them than I ever could have. ^^;; I just do fanfiction for fun, and earn no monetary rewards for writing it. Reviews are, of course, worth as much as silver.

**In honor of my birthday (which is today!), I'm giving the Hetalia fandom this present of a brand new fic~! [ I hope everyone likes it? x/x ]**

_Summary: Unauthorized opening, inspection or tampering of mail is considered a federal offense and thus punishable by law. One wonders if this statute applies to the employees, as well. (College AU)_

Title: Tampering With Mail Clerks Is Illegal

Chapter One: September (English)

_Chapter One: September_

Word Count: 18,024

Page Count: 27

[Total Word Count: 18,024]

[Total Page Count: 27]

Anime: Hetalia  
Pairing(s) in this chapter: Alfred/Arthur [America/England], Greece/Japan, Switzerland/Austria

Warning: Language (Arthur, mostly), Boy love/BL

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)  
Date: Monday, May 24, 2010

_Fic Recs: Almost anything by the authors EverythingIsMagic, Canadino, TechnoRanma and Abarero here on FF._

_Also, I'm sorry, but when comparing America and England's hair colors… England and France are definitely blonds (France having a lighter shade, though). In official art, America has light/golden brown or possibly dirty blond hair, as does Canada (and yes, it is possible for someone to have blond hair when they're young and then have it darken to another color entirely as they get older). This fic will reflect that perception. I won't back down from what color my eyes see, I don't care what fanon says he is. In this fic, America will not be referred to as a blond. I won't hold it against you if you're one of those that do define him as a blond, though! :3 We all see things differently, after all~_

Also! This is listed as America/England, but** I really don't believe in denoting seme/uke roles **(if it eventually comes to that… which it might [thus the M rating] )** with how you list a pairing. **A little too anal, for me. So! **This fic involves Alfred and Arthur in romantic settings, **_**but for convenience's sake we'll just list it in the summary as USxUK**_**. **xD Because… Arthur's repressed about his feelings like that, and Alfred's just a liiittle more aware—and all. _**Nothing to do with the seme/uke roles**_**, as I still have no idea what they'll be until I get around to writing those scenes. **So… there. :/

[ …and, _damn_, after writing the ending bit of this chapter I'm craving a banana milkshake with honey. D: ]

_This chapter was written to the music listed below._

Songs: World Is Mine (by Hatsune Miku), Pub and GO!, Absolutely Invincible English Gentleman, Country From Where The Sun Rises, Excuse Me I Am Sorry, Gee (by SNSD)

**Important notes: I've changed some of the countries' human names because some of the original ones bother me/are rather hard to remember/don't fit the characters, in my opinion. I'll try to explain them as the fic progresses, though!**

: : : : : : :

By now, nearly all the new students had moved in. The semester began in a few days, and here he was, already starting on the required reading for one of his upcoming classes. Some might call it anal, others, even unnecessary. However, Arthur Kirkland was not one to listen to them. Nor was he one to pay any mind to the little fairy creatures fluttering about his head, trying to gain his attention and the unicorn that trotted nonchalantly about the common room before him. He ignored their hallucinated voices and the sounds of nonexistent hooves clacking on the tiled floor, refusing to allow his condition to make him appear any weirder than he already was. Oh, when he was young he had created his own imaginary fairies, but these fae folk were different. Back then, they were of his own creation, and until only a few years ago he'd thought the fairies and elves that appeared to him through no imagining of his own were real. Real, mystical creatures—but, it became apparent when their appearances didn't change from one day to the next. Never was a hair out of place, the design on every fairy's wings was the same, they always said the same things, never moving on from the past—

They weren't real, and he had to have some form of schizophrenia to even see and hear them. He was old enough, after all. The disease hit in early adulthood, just about when he'd first started attending the uni.

Not that he had the money to get on treatment, of course. He'd not spoken of his realization to anyone, not one of his older siblings knew. They were over in the united Kingdom, anyway, trying to scrape by enough for him to finish college. More expenses wouldn't help the situation. Drawn slightly listless with the way his thoughts were turning, the blond rested a bored cheek on his knuckles, gazing out at the stragglers with their rich parents in tow to have them tote more useless junk they thought they needed to survive the coming semester. He almost snorted. College was different than primary school, but it seemed that everywhere, everyone always hated freshmen.

They were loud, uncouth, out-of-control spoiled prats, the lot of them. Their parents might have denied they were rich, but to be able to even _afford _throwing their money away on the ridiculously over-priced meal plans and housing in the on-campus dormitories it was obvious that they were quite well-off. Arthur muttered under his breath as another of those godforsaken carts assigned for moving in—the kind with the tiny wheels that clacked obnoxiously over every small, grouted division between the tiles—wheeled through the entryway door, breaking the relative silence.

It'd been nothing but hell since Monday. The little children were moving in, their parents practically breathing down their necks, and he'd been the unlucky one to serve in the morning for the first few days. At that point, he hadn't actually had to do any work but hand out the new residents' keys, tell them where they'd find the number for their mailbox combination, have them sign the contract for their key, and send them on their way. It was a simple enough job, but with the hundreds of students moving into this dorm alone in a matter of only a few days, it had run him rather haggard. He was still reeling from it and in any spare moment found himself wistfully wishing for a good cup of hot tea to calm his frayed nerves.

By now, though, things had calmed down a bit and while he still got a vague trickle of late-comers (it was Thursday already, and classes started after Labor Day next week) and it was much more manageable than those first horrendous days. Then again, it was always like this during move-in. He'd been at the uni for going on his fourth year, now, and he only prayed there'd be enough money for him to finish. As it was, there was still a mountain of required classes left for him to take—his 'general education' requirements, or simply 'Gen. Eds.'—and he highly doubted his ability to deal with it all. But, god damn it, he would try his best to not become one of those five-year-seniors he'd heard so much about! It was getting a little desperate, and due to complications he didn't qualify for financial aid. It was likely due to that inheritance from his mother, which neither he nor his brothers or sister could touch until they all came of age. Not that it was much, but certainly a few thousand dollars here and there could ease the strain of college tuition.

He was jarred out of his thoughts by a hand slapping down on the counter before him. He looked up, eyes squinting in annoyance over his reading glasses as his brow furrowed. After a moment he placed himself, and attempted a pleasant smile towards the newcomer.

"Ah, hello. Might I help you with something?" The brunet before him grinned, straightening and pointing a thumb at his chest, announcing proudly.

"I'm new here!" As though that weren't obvious, the blond mused, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

"Yes, yes. Have you got your student ID? You'd best go down to Campus Central, or else I can't give you your room key or mailbox number—"

"Nah, I'm good! Got those yesterday~!" He blinked, slowly lifting a hand to lower his glasses towards the end of his nose, to better focus over the lenses on the boy before him. Light brown hair, to be sure, and irritatingly shining blue eyes. Was that a cowlick, sticking up from the boy's fringe-line? One thick brow angled itself upwards in scrutiny.

"…Then why are you here?" The kid grinned at him, placing his other hand on the countertop and leaning into Arthur's personal space. Though uncomfortable, he held his ground, although he couldn't help but wrinkle his nose in disgust—too much cologne.

"I forgot my combination! Think ya can give it to me?" The blond dead-panned, at last giving into the urge to lean back, and pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose, resuming his reading, his tone dry and bothered at having been interrupted for such a foolish reason. It brokered no argument.

"That's confidential information. Go to Campus Central and get it." The boy started to whine.

"Aw, but that's way down on lower campus! I don't wanna have to walk all the way down there just to get my combination!" Arthur could feel a corner of his left eye twitch. It was a fifteen minute walk, at best. He leveled his glare at the page before him, reminding himself to keep his temper in check. This was his_ job_, after all. He didn't look up, despite the urge to, and tried to keep most of the irritation out of his voice.

"Then perhaps you shouldn't have forgotten it in the first place." _You dolt._ He added silently, eyes skimming the page in feigned reading—he couldn't concentrate with that brat still standing there, leaned over the counter as though he owned it. Nevertheless, he couldn't encourage him with any attention. It'd make the fool stay longer. He heard a loud, dramatic sigh. He expected the boy would give up and turn around, at this point. However, he heard the scuff of a sneaker on tile, and then a light 'thump'.

He looked up.

"What on earth are you—" The brunet blinked at him, grinning from his place half-kneeled on the top of the counter, arms straight and supporting his upper body weight as one knee perched on the high counter. Presumably, his other leg was dangling down on the outer side of the counter, keeping his balance.

"Gettin' my mail. It's easier this way!" Arthur's cheeks went hot in outrage. The Brit set his book aside and stood in front of the American—despite the fact their eyes weren't at equal heights—placing his arms akimbo and blocking entry into the mailroom proper.

"Get off of there!" He remembered himself, this time, reigning in his temper. Already a few people had started to stare. The blond glared up at this infuriating idiot. The stupid youth only grinned at him, again.

"But I gotta get my mail, ya know! There might be important stuff in there~!" Arthur only continued to glare, not daring to give into the urge to bodily shove the kid off the counter top. He didn't need to lose this job, and he _certainly_ didn't need a lawsuit from this chap's rich parents.

"Spoiled twat…" He muttered, turning to face the large grid of metal boxes on the long wall beside them that stretched to a little ways above his head. The tiny steel boxes—only just large enough for a small, square package scarcely taller or wider than the height of a regular-sized envelope to fit in—were arranged flush with each other, their combined height easily stretching to six feet above the ground from the floor. Each box was open on the Brit's side of the wall, but on the other side there were individual hinged doors with combination locks for students to pick up their mail. On each side there were room numbers—for obvious sorting and retrieval reasons. They very rarely changed the names each year or semester, it just got to be too much with people moving in and out all the time. There were over six-hundred students in this dorm alone, after all!

Arthur shot a still-smoldering glare behind him at the self-centered student waiting thereand the boy seemed surprised for a moment, before sheepishly smiling and jumping down onto his proper side of the counter. The blond sniffed, mildly placated, allowing his arms to fall to his sides in a noncommittal move of compliance.

"What's your room number."

"Wha—? Wait, don't ya need to know my—" He got right in the boy's face, then, jabbing the kid's chest with an angry finger. He was running out of patience, and no doubt the fury in his gaze told volumes about it.

"I _don't_ want you know your name. If you're going to insist to put me through this, I might as well get themail for your _entire suite_!" Arthur glared again, just for good measure—although he had refrained from using any impolite language (this was his job, after all!)—and the boy seemed slightly cowed by the look. Perhaps his irritation was finally starting to sink into that thick head.

"Five-fourteen…" Paying no mind to the meek voice, the blond turned on his heel to once again stomp down the line of mailboxes stationed permanently in the wall.

"Right, then." He ticked off the numbers in his head, eyes running along the familiar lines as he strode down towards where the five-hundreds were. He lifted a finger, running it down the separating bars between the boxes, muttering the number under his breath.

_Ah… five-fourteen_. According to this, there were six students rooming there—

_Must be a suite_. He nodded, upon checking this, and gathered all the mail from the five boxes-one box was empty, must be only five students living in the suite, then—scarcely glancing at the names. He brought the load of new-resident brochures—honestly, did the uni_ really_ have to waste all that paper on information that could be found online?—and sorted through them, to check for any of the slips of paper that signaled a package too big for the small metal boxes had come in.

"Oh, bugger." He muttered it, finding one and squinting at the name on it. He peered over his eyeglasses at the brunet smiling a little nervously at him, now. Arthur sighed. Might as well try—he had a one-in-five chance of getting it right, after all.

"You wouldn't happen to be Alfred Jones, would you?" The boy's face lit up, and the blond winced mentally as he knew what was to come.

"Hey, yeah! What's that little piece of paper mean—?" Wonderful—he had to put up with this tosser for even longer. Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Arthur massaged the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses, prominent brows knitting together.

"Just show me your ID. You'll need to sign on the screen here. You've got a package it seems…" He went through the usual routine, checking the signature on the ID with how the boy signed, before disappearing into the back room armed with the slip of paper to find the package attached to it. He did find it—and had to stare, for a moment. It was… rather large. Arthur grit his teeth, stomping towards it and stubbornly picking it up around the bottom edges, careful to use his knees. He staggered out, cursing under his breath for a moment before he managed to master it and finally push it onto the counter, glaring at the box heatedly. He plastered on a bright smile that wasn't all fake—he'd be left alone, now that that was sorted!—and hummed cheerily at the boy as he handed him his ID back.

"There you are!" The kid grinned at him, oblivious to his now-hidden irritation (the bloke likely just thought he was moody and weird—everyone did) nodding a bit as he—curse it all!—easily shouldered the huge box Arthur'd had so much trouble with, waving with his other hand full of mail behind him. He didn't glance back, and so the boy didn't see the blond's astounded expression.

"Thanks, man! See you around!"

_I should certainly hope not._

The Brit shook his head. Of course, he would see him eventually—the boy lived here after all—but at the very least the brunet should learn to remember his combination. With luck, perhaps when that bloke next had a package in, he'd come to retrieve it on somebody else's watch.

: : :

"Hey, Gil, I got a box from my folks!" He strode into his room, grinning wide and still with that box shouldered carelessly. He tossed the mail in his other hand haphazardly onto his bed as his room mate looked up, whistling at the size before showing teeth in a wolfish smile as he called out to their present suitemates.

"_Damn_! Hey, Vash, Siggy, we got a rich kid's care package in the house!" The sound of a door opening could be heard, and not a few moments later a rather ill-tempered blond with arms crossed over his white tank top appeared in their doorway, glaring at them.

"Do you want to die? One of my professors has already assigned readings for next week. He e-mailed us this morning." The boy's tone was even, but he was almost twitching in annoyance at being interrupted. Waving it off, Gilbert motioned to the large box settled in the middle of the room between his and Alfred's beds—which the brunet was currently ripping into with a pair of scissors.

"C'mon, Vash—semester hasn't even started yet! Live a little!" The blond snorted, not moving even as one of their other suitemates poked his head around the doorframe, adjusting his glasses with a muted blink.

"Already? My, Alfred, they really are rather anxious about you leaving home…" The dark-haired boy mused, stepping quietly into the room. The old black—almost grey, by now—turtleneck fit him loosely, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows while his blue jeans sported two almost worn-through patches at his knees. The other, more light-haired brunet looked up from where he was bent over the care package, grinning.

"Nah, Mom's always been like this! Besides, the van was packed full when we moved in, so—" The cultured boy simply shook his head, turning to head back to his own room.

"I see. Well, if you'll excuse me, I need to practice." Vash jerked a bit as the taller boy passed by, glancing towards him nervously for a split second before snapping his gaze back to the other two. The momentary look went unnoticed, both Gilbert and Alfred already tearing into the innards of the box with echoing declarations of "_Awesome!"_

"…I'm going to listen." His suitemate paused in front of his own door, blinking at him curiously and Vash turned his back on the ruckus behind him, frowning towards the Austrian. "Besides, whatever you're doing has got to be better than what these idiots are up to." The musician offered him a slight smile, at that, nodding before opening the door to his room and heading inside.

"Of course. You're quite welcome to join me." Pushing down his anxiety with a firm stride, Vash uncrossed his arms, sticking his hands in his baggy camo pants' pockets (tucked neatly into the tops of his steel-toed boots) and following after him.

"You guys are welcome to anything in this box, y'anno! I'll leave it out for ya!" The last word of the American's call rang out just before the door closed completely.

: : :

He passed his Friday afternoon shift in the mailroom by finishing the first chapter in his psychology book. Most of the new students here at the uni tried to schedule their classes four days out of the week, leaving the last one free. It was the unofficial goal of every so-called 'self-respecting' student—at least once in the course of their undergraduate career—to have a semester with no Friday classes. Of course, that was all American rubbish. Arthur had one class on Fridays, caving to campus pressure only a little by allowing himself an early vacation at the end of the week. That class—a psychology recitation—ended at noon and his mailroom shift at Waltman Hall started at one. His schedule give him just enough time to snag a quick lunch before heading leisurely to the dormitory building located on upper campus. He didn't really see his job as a chore—it helped him live, after all!

The Brit congratulated himself for the umpteenth time for being so smart in planning his schedule, this semester. He had at least an hour between each class, so there would be no harried sprinting in the ten blooming minutes the uni gave as a break between them. Certainly, had it been primary school, this amount of time would be sufficient—but in a city-based uni (where one had to dodge around traffic lights and race clear across campus or up and down stairs because the lift was too crowded, ancient and slow) it was far from it. He recalled those years rather poignantly, and was satisfied enough that he'd learned, by now, to space his classes at least an hour apart. The break was good for him, at any rate.

His musings were interrupted by a soft, happy voice.

"Excuse me~" He jerked his head up—and up. Unnaturally purple eyes glimmered at him in mean amusement over a cream-colored scarf, but he chose to ignore it. Arthur didn't allow this man's stature to intimidate him, instead smiling nicely and politely rising to a stand behind his side of the counter.

"Yes, sir? Might I help you with something?" The looming man gave him another of those creepily harmless smiles, holding out a slip of paper before him.

"I checked my mail, and found this~ It says to give it to the clerk?" Ah… another package. The blond pushed the familiar bitterness from his mind, instead taking the package slip with a nod.

"Yes, sir. Please show me your ID, sign here on the screen, and I'll go get your package for you." The tall student watched him for a moment, and Arthur shifted a hint uncomfortably, but his expression remained firmly professional.

"…Da. If that is what must be done, here~?" The man—Russian, apparently, from the accent he could finally place as well as that little 'da' slip—smiled just as suddenly as before, handing over his ID and doing as he'd been asked. A little apprehensively, Arthur turned his back on the student, heading into the back room to retrieve his package. He made a valiant effort to ignore the chills tickling down his spine as he felt those eerie violet eyes trying to bore through the back of his skull while he walked away.

: : :

Barring that rather odd run-in with the Russian student, yesterday, his shift had gone rather pleasantly. And now… _now_, it was the last Saturday before the semester officially began, and he had decided to take up a new weekend tradition. Ren had opted to stay at the apartment—something about finishing a project he'd been working on, all summer—so, here he was. Alone, jogging through the city, with red sweat-absorbent protectors each decorated with a white English Lion on his wrists, a red jersey (one of the two or three he had) identical to the English Away-game uniform, and white shorts lined in red at the sides that stopped just above his knees. He'd taken his jacket off a while ago, and at the moment it was stuffed in the English Lion-print gym bag thumping gently on his back with every step, alongside his soccer ball (an Umbro Stealth Replica, of course) and other necessities.

It had just rained before he set out, and so the air was quite pleasant as he approached campus. He closed his eyes a moment, relishing the feel of the clear air—free of city pollution, for once!—before opening them with a small, unconscious smile. It reminded him of England, really. The crisp cut to the air, the slight fog lingering in the sky, the summer season just about at its end but still warm enough to go about in said summer clothing. He noted the large on-campus park as he approached it, sandwiched between two familiar and unmistakable landmarks. Arthur didn't care about them right now, though. His sights were set on one of the many fields sprinkled out over the vast expanse of green grass (except for the large patches of dirt that had been worn with too much rough-housing). Apparently, he hadn't been the only one to have the idea of venturing out, today.

Two of the (unofficial, otherwise some sports team would be practicing on them) fields were taken. There were only really three, all of them separated by a staggered line of trees, the first two next to each other on flat ground and the third situated in line with them at the end, separated by a moderately steep hill. On the one currently nearest him a bunch of guys were yelling and practically swimming in the mud they'd made with their game as they played American football. He rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he passed them by with a wide berth, eyes drawn to the crowd of boys on the middle field, playing something that looked like a mix between Frisbee and—American football. The blond twitched. Didn't these yanks know how to play anything worthwhile? Rugby—lacrosse, even? He ignored these mud-spattered chaps with a proud toss of his head, making for the only abandoned field and carefully sliding down the hill. The Brit shouldered off his gym bag, digging out his football and tossing it into the air.

In another moment he was after it, dribbling it along his feet as he leisurely made a lap around the field, getting a feel for the terrain. Satisfied enough with the consistency he found, he popped the ball up onto his knee with the top of his foot, brows furrowing in concentration as he focused on juggling it, relishing in the slightly stinging _smack_ each time the hard, spherical surface hit his exposed knees. He fought a cocky grin as he counted how many times he managed it in a row, at last letting it roll onto the ground. Arthur took off after it again, a bit less leisurely as he dribbled it in longer strides, now, giving himself a good workout when he kicked it too far and had to race to catch up to the ball as fast as he could. Ah, this would make quite a nice Saturday tradition, wouldn't it? He had a feeling he'd be craving this sort of physical release after a long week of studying and work. Nearly beaming, he continued in his play. It didn't matter he didn't have anyone to play with, or against. The blond was just enjoying the feel of the grass beneath his cleats, dancing around and twirling with the football as though it had a life of its own and wasn't merely directed by taps from his feet. Arthur didn't know how much time had passed—his mobile was far out of danger of jostling, safely tucked away into his gym bag with his other things.

Just for fun, then, he whacked the ball with all he could, and it soured back towards the tree his satchel was leaned against, hitting the bark of the trunk a meter above it with an echoing _thud _that made him smirk in satisfaction. He had jogged about halfway into the center of the field to retrieve it, when he noticed a lone figure watching him from atop the hill that separated the second and third fields, and furrowed his brows, squinting. The bloke was beneath the shadows of the trees overhead—this early in September, they still had their leaves, after all, but at a distance his hair almost looked dirty-blond. He narrowed his eyes toward him—he could _certainly_ tell that that yank had either been one of the ones playing American football, or the Frisbee knock-off of it. He was covered just about head-to-toe in mud. It was lHe was coverikely they'd gathered more guys, and had too many for their one field. So they were kicking him out? He sniffed. Bloody Americans and their primitive football.

Ah, he hadn't noticed he'd slowed to a stop as he noted the lad on the hill. Arthur glared towards him before tossing his sweaty head and continuing on his way, grabbing his football with vehemence and tucking it under an arm. By this time he was a little muddy, too, having had a few slips in the soft ground despite his cleats, so it didn't really matter if the grass blades and such coated his clothes, by now. He would wash them when he got back to the apartment. Gathering up his bag—_blast_, but his legs were killing him, after that workout!—he fished out his mobile and primly checked it, all the while ignoring the figure still staring at him from atop that hill.

He blinked. He'd been at it for over two hours? He'd only meant to be here until noon, and it was well into the afternoon, already. He'd missed lunch. Shaking his head, the Brit stuffed the device back into his bag, then pulling on his yet-pristine red training jacket and slinging the satchel over his shoulder as he began to climb the hill, pointedly ignoring the wanker still watching him. As he reached the top, though, he at last glanced towards the boy—beneath all that mud, a pair of smeared glasses gleamed at him. He scowled, and turned to briskly walk away when an annoying voice pierced the air.

"Hey! Hey, wait!" He heard footsteps, and had to smirk when he heard a yelp and a sound thud. The blond looked over his shoulder, that smug look only growing as he spied the young American on the ground on his back, having slid in the mud with his haste. He'd avoided a concussion by propping his elbows beneath him at the last moment—although those joints had to be aching, now.

"You'd best watch out, there. It's rather muddy, still." His voice was dripping with condescension, and he noted the frown he got in return as the boy gazed up at him, his smirk curling up a hint more at a corner of his lips. To this, he turned, back haughty and straight, and began to stride away. He heard the sound of scrambling behind him, but paid it no mind until a hand roughly grabbed his elbow from behind, accompanied almost instantaneously with a too-loud, excited voice in his ear.

"Hey, whoa! Hold up, I—" The Brit immediately sent a glare back towards him, trying to jerk his arm out of the idiot's grasp. That tosser was _strong_, damn it all!

"Let go of me, you sodding—" Blue eyes, partially obscured by the lenses flecked with grass and mud, beamed up at him as the infuriating chap had the audacity to _grin _as he interrupted him.

"No need to get hostile, man! I just wanted to say you pulled some really cool moves back there. It was awesome! I've never seen anything like it! Well, except on TV—" Involuntarily, he felt his face heat up at the praise, but covered well by yelling, playing it off as an angry flush as he tried to jerk his arm away from the guy with more insistence, now.

"L-Let go! Is it a commonly-accepted practice in America to _assault_ someone you don't know?" He pulled his best scowl, furrowing his intimidating eyebrows as he at last managed to jerk his limb away from the stupid kid, turning, shoulders tensed, and starting to walk away again, muttering under his breath about divvy yanks and their issues with personal space. He heard light footfalls, once more, though, and looked up just in time to see the idiot walking a few steps directly in front of him, facing him with another of those bleeding grins. He frowned, stretching to peer behind the boy for any obstacles he might not be able to see.

"You're more of a pillock than I thought, walking like that. Are you _aiming_ to crack your skull open?" He fumed the words in a bad temper—he was hungry and a bit tired from all that running, damn it!—striding forward to catch up with him and placing a hand on the idiot's shoulder, forcibly turning him around with a brisk scoff. In return, he practically _felt_ the cheeky grin as the boy propped an arm around his shoulders and fell into step with him, laughing.

"Nice to know you care~! What's your name, anyway, man?"

"As though I'd tell a git like you." He snorted, then paused, glancing back. The second field was empty, and although there were still a few boys playing American football on the first one—none of them seemed to remotely care that this boy was hanging off him. If the irritating bloke were with them, they'd likely have waved at him to rejoin the game, but this… Arthur felt his brow knit, turning back to eye the American hanging off him suspiciously.

"Where are your friends?" At this, the guy actually looked embarrassed, and slid his arm off of him to rub the back of his head with another laugh—this one sounding not so self-assured, though.

"Ah, yeah… our game actually ended a while ago." The brunet—for that's what he was, this close up, he could tell his hair was really a light shade of brown beneath all that mud—looked down, kicking at some of the grass by his feet. "I sorta… got distracted." Heat bloomed on the Brit's cheeks, again, and he quickly turned his head away, lifting a fisted hand to hide a cough.

"Well." He searched for words—then simply shaking it off, squaring his shoulders and making to, at long last, _leave_. "They're likely missing you, then. Best be off." He heard a surprised noise behind him, and sure enough soon the boy was jogging alongside him, waving one hand a bit as though to try to cajole him into something.

"Hey, hey, don't be like that! I was… y'nno, wondering—" The chap pushed a tentative smile up towards Arthur that made his heart beat a little faster, but he ignored it, keeping his fast pace. "I mean… you've gotta be hungry after all that, right? I've got extra meal passes, so—" All at once, he felt offense and bashfulness well up within him. He went with the more familiar of the two, puffing up his chest and glaring hotly towards the sodding tosser following him around like a puppy.

"_Thank_ you, but I'll kindly inform you I don't need charity!" He sniffed, holding his head high like a proper, proud Englishman. "And we're both a right mess, so I don't see—" The blond froze, mid-sentence, practically kicking himself in the arse for giving the American that opening. Sure enough, the brunet's face lit up and he grinned, slinging another arm around his shoulders with a joyous laugh as they continued to stroll along.

"_Really!_ Maybe when we're_ not_ all dirty, yeah?" He leaned a bit too much of his weight on the blond, though, and Arthur had to sputter to regain balance for a moment before turning an even more pissed-off glare to the one beside him, who only kept grinning at him like a loon.

"_No!_" He hissed, desperate to clear up that little misunderstanding. "I don't even know your—"

"Alfred." There was the hand _not _currently cupping his shoulder, right in front of him, waiting for a handshake. He gaped at the pretension, but didn't have much of a choice as the brunet—Alfred, apparently—grabbed his hand and shook it with a touch too much vigor for his brain to process. Arthur felt a vein pop in his head as the boy then stared expectantly at him in his ensuing stunned silence, and his verdant eyes glimmered with vicious rage. He sucker punched that stupid yank with the hand he'd shaken, out of nowhere, taking off before the wanker could recover and cursing under his breath as his legs protested the quick speed of his getaway.

He pushed down the thought that tickled a corner of his mind, saying he'd met the lad, before.

: : :

The first week of classes went smoothly enough, and by Friday he found himself sitting in on his afternoon mailroom shift. It was a little after one, and he was skimming over the syllabi that had been handed out for each of his five classes, considering taking his fifteen-minute break now when a hand suddenly thumped down on the surface of the mailroom's front desk. Twitching slightly, he looked up over his reading glasses towards the offender, opening his mouth to— He stopped. Blinked. The guy blinked at him, too, adjusting the strap of his bag over one shoulder as he frowned and leaned into Arthur's personal space. Before he could react, his reading glasses were yoinked off his face, and a sound of triumph lit through the air as the American pointed at him—scarcely a centimeter away from his nose.

"I _knew_ I'd seen you, before!" That daft brunet was grinning, waving Arthur's precious reading glasses about in the air with his other hand. He laughed again, pounding on the counter with a fist before slouching over it, face confident as he lowered his voice to a more normal volume, this time pointing at the blond with his captive spectacles. "Hey, you pack a pretty mean punch—and kick, I guess, by the way you handled that soccer ball!" Alfred winked at him from behind his own lenses, and the blond found himself at this, scowling as he stood, neatly plucking his glasses from the boy's grubby fingers and setting them aside.

"Yes, well—Might there be something I can help you with, _sir_?" He said, stiffly, arms crossing over his chest as he glared at the loopy yank. _Just get your mail and be done with it, you idiot. _He prayed silently in his mind, hopes crushed when the brunet completely ignored his statement, instead leaning his chin on the heel of his hand and staring up at him with a smile.

"…Ya know, you look better when you're in that jersey, all sweaty and covered in grass and mud." He bristled, and the American laughed, straightening and lifting two fingers towards his face. Arthur recoiled slightly, only stilling when the tips only sought to tap his eyebrows, lightly. "I thought these were mud, too!" Another infuriating snicker. "Those're some caterpillars you've got, there—" That vein in the Brit's head burst, again, and he snatched the boy's wrist, shadows falling over his glinting eyes as he tightened his grip with barely-restrained rage.

"_Sir. Did you need help with something?" _His voice was low and ominous, and it seemed to register in that thick head for a moment as the bloke gulped. The brunet aimed a weak smile towards him.

"I, er… I still can't remember my combination…" He glared at the kid, releasing Alfred's wrist with a shove.

"Then you'd best get to Campus Central. I told you before, we don't have that information here." But the chap was already leaned on the counter, again, staring up at him with those startlingly blue eyes and another smile, his momentary fear apparently forgotten.

"Can't ya get it for me, again~? I haven't checked back in a week, so there must be a lot of stuff." He sputtered at the boy, narrowing his eyes as his brow furrowed and hissing under his breath—so as to keep their conversation relatively private.

"You _prat_! I'm not some—My job isn't to—Oh, for the love of—" That smile quirked, cheekily so, and the American still hadn't deigned to move from where he was slumped over the counter. He looked perfectly comfortable with his elbow set against it and the adjoining hand propping his face up.

"You're cute when you're mad." His mouth dropped open, at that, words forgotten as he felt the temperature in his face easily go up a good twenty degrees. The American winked at him, further rendering him speechless at his audacity. "Room number's five-fourteen, gov'nah~!" The Brit seethed, but seeing as he could think of no proper comeback, he turned, stomping down the grid of metal mailboxes and snatching all the mail from the pertinent ones—before taking a slow breath to collect himself, then sneaking a glance down back towards the desk.

The American was leaned over further than he'd been when Arthur'd departed, and grinned at the look, waving enthusiastically like the fool he was. Steam practically erupted out of the blond's ears, at this, and he marched back, thrusting the mail—a good collection of envelopes, as well as various campus brochures about safety and other bollocks—onto the counter with a flat-palmed slap.

"_There's _your bleeding mail." He growled, narrowing his eyes towards the brunet who merely continued to gaze at him in amusement, now leaned rakishly against the wall and showing off his full height (a good head taller), hands in his pockets. Alfred made no move to take the pile of paper crap he'd been coerced into fetching. The blond's brows lowered in anger once more, and a half-smirk seemed to sneak onto the yank's face.

"Hey. What's your name?" Rather displeased with the response to his fearsome scowl, he gave the boy his back, arms crossing as he glared at his own knapsack, slung over the one chair a little ways back from the high counter.

"Why should I tell you, you nasty yank?" He snapped, lifting his chin up proudly. He heard a sigh, the shuffling of a bit of paper, and chanced a look over his shoulder. Sky blue eyes bore up on him with a bit of melancholy as the kid collected his mail.

"Hey… you really don't think I'm all _that_ bad, do you?" It registered, vaguely, that there might be a different connotation for the word 'nasty' in America, but he brushed it aside, frowning at that sad face before moving to pick up his glasses from where he'd set them on the counter, near the wall, gaze falling off to the side.

"You're a loud, rude, absolutely intolerable _moron_, is what I think." He stated bluntly, pushing the lenses up his nose with yet another glare towards the American that only intensified when the kid started to chuckle, gazing up at him with a crooked smile.

"_I'm_ rude? You haven't even told me your name, Mr. High-And-Mighty British Gentleman!" There was a bit of truth and a bit of teasing in there, and he narrowed his eyes behind their lenses, suspicious of how fast the kid's mood had switched. The blond straightened, studying this chap for a moment. A leather jacket, jeans, T-shirt, glasses, blue eyes… An all-American kid, likely spoiled beyond repair. He chastised himself, for a moment, though. Alfred was right. It was rather rude of him not to say, but— The Brit lifted his chin, arms crossed over his front as he angled his face away from the American on the other edge of the counter beside him.

"I'll tell you my name if you leave me alone for the rest of my shift." He heard an excited sound, and peered back towards the lad. His face was all alight in anticipation, and Arthur found his cheeks tinting lightly pink in response. He held his ground, though.

"Just the rest of your shift? Hey, then afterwards can we—" He raised his hackles, snapping a bit.

"The _day_, then! Just let me get back to work!" The kid grinned, nodding and holding out a hand.

"Sure! It's a deal!" Eying him warily, he nonetheless slowly faced him, reaching out his own to seal their agreement with a firm handshake. Those too-blue eyes bore up on him, waiting eagerly. He forced down another wave of embarrassed heat on his face, frowning slightly as the boy didn't let go of his hand. Squaring his shoulders, he stood up straighter, stubbornly refusing to look away and curtly answering, all the while glaring firmly into the queerly-intimidating gaze that glimmered hopefully up at him.

"It's a _pleasure_ to meet you." He half-hoped the dry humor in the wording would catch on the American's sensors, but it apparently didn't, as he didn't react.

"My name is Arthur."

: : :

The boy had been true to his word, only giving him another beaming smile before releasing his by-then-clammy hand. The American had turned, then, waving behind his back as he skittered off to the Waltman Hall North entrance, handing his ID off to the security guard who checked it, slid it through the card scanner and sent him through.

He didn't see Alfred for the remainder of his shift, and was mildly placated that the American had held up his end of their 'deal'. His walk home after a few hours of studying in the library once work ended was moderately pleasant and in peace. In fact, he could almost enjoy the late summer dusk and foliage hanging around him, and blot out the ever-present sounds of traffic and sirens—the curses of living in a city.

"! Hey, hey, look what I can do, Arthur! Look at meee~!"

Almost.

The blond pointedly ignored the nonexistent fairies spinning in their crazy loops and dives around his head, not focusing on them and keeping his gaze straight and dignified. Some people may have noticed he was striding rather quickly—as though to get away from the little imps—but most likely attributed it to the busy life one tended to have while living in the city. The dragon was a bit harder to ignore, though. It always just sat like a giant whale in the parking lot of the hospital he passed through as a shortcut home. Arthur still had to fight the urge to flinch when it opened its mouth, spewing flames at him as he crossed—every time, without fail. He'd had experiences with this before, though—he'd always come out of it unharmed. It was simply another reason to prove that all these creatures were really just hallucinations. He made his way to the small apartment complex full of a few interconnected two-to-three story buildings, stepping lightly down to the door to their ground-basement-level apartment.

Unlocking the door—it was habit, living in the city as they did, to always lock the door whether someone was at home or not—, the Brit strolled inside and closed it, absently slipping off his shoes and sighing in mild content as the bamboo terry slippers he had stashed in the entryway swallowed up his stocking feet in comfort. Curses, but he loved mystical things… Arthur supposed it was the universe laughing at him, by the way it made his imperfect mind taunt him with daily images of creatures that didn't actually exist. They _could_ have actually existed, but he'd never know. How would he ever tell the difference from his own hallucinations and the real thing, after all?

Locking the front door behind him, he heard the seemingly ever-present typing pause in one of the inner rooms—not that there could be much doubt, as there were only two small bedrooms, the bathroom and the living/kitchen/laundry area. It was small, but sufficient for their needs. He cast a slight smile around at the mixed decorations—a united Kingdom flag here, a few woodblock prints blown up into reasonably-sized posters throughout the room as well as the Welsh flag hanging above the couch, and a little Hello Kitty welcoming scroll against the wall, there. It was all very homey, he thought, and rather welcoming and peaceful to come back to after a long day.

Truth be told, he'd been very happy that that bloke had put an ad in the uni's newspaper about wanting two people for a small apartment only about twenty minutes walking distance from the center of campus. He was never good at making a stellar first impression, but he and the Asian lad had seemed to hit it off, right away, and they'd similarly impressed the landlord, who gave them a very good deal for rent—despite the fact it didn't include utilities, so they were stuck paying gas, electric and internet on their own. They'd sat down and discussed their needs, both agreeing on the basics, and that cable really was an outdated mode of entertainment—after all, what couldn't you see on the telly that wasn't already online? As a result, they'd happily agreed to merely have a television around for a random movie or video game. They'd only moved into this place a fortnight ago—beating the majority of the campus move-in crowds—and so were still feeling it out. Neither of them were too social, though, so they didn't know the neighbors too well, just yet, but—

"All right, Ren?" He knocked on his room mate's door, waiting to hear a soft sound of confirmation before cracking it open. The Asian lad liked to work in dim lighting, and dark brown eyes stared back at him, his pale face lit by the eerie glow of the monitor screen. Arthur resisted the urge to wince, instead frowning like a mother hen and flicking the light switch, flooding the room in illumination. "You shouldn't work in the dark, like that. It's bad for your eyes." The Japanese boy's gaze slipped to the side, and a small, bashful smile leaked onto his face.

"Ah, yes, I'm sorry. I didn't realize how late it had gotten…" The Brit merely shook his head, turning to head for the kitchen.

"It's fine, I suppose. Did you want to nosh up anything? I could—" Somehow, the small bloke beat him to it, and Arthur had to blink, brow furrowing. That was fast, especially for someone who was a bit of a nerd, like himself. Ren was smiling at him from in front of the stove, but he swore he could detect a hint of nervousness around the edges of that expression.

"Ah, no, Arthur-san, I'll do it—" He huffed, grabbing a spare apron from one of the clandestine closets hidden in just about every spare bit of space, slipping the upper cord over his head and tying the strings behind his back.

"Come, now, I can't let you do all the work around here! Your cooking is lovely, it certainly tastes better than mine, but at least let me help!" Ren looked at him, studying him a moment before smiling, just slightly.

"…Yes, you're right. Forgive me? If you could—" The boy turned, as though examining the small stove and kitchen area they possessed. Then he seemed to brighten, glancing towards his room mate with a shyer smile. "There's miso in the refrigerator. Could you start measuring out the paste and I'll start the broth? Would you then be so kind as to start cutting up the tofu, then the spring onions? It would really help me very much, if you wouldn't mind…" It went unsaid that Arthur was banned from touching the stove (except to boil water for tea)—at least until his skills improved. He truly was very lucky to have Clarence as a flat mate—he was so very understanding and patient. Surely his own cooking would improve as a result of such good coaching! The blond rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, smiling grandly—now, measuring and cutting things up, _that_ he could do!

"Certainly! It would be my pleasure!" A few of the usual little elves scurried around his feet—playing tag with one another and being generally underfoot and annoying—but he ignored them, concentrating fully on improving his skills and not allowing himself to be distracted by their high-pitched giggles. He'd get to the point where Ren would let him use the stove, he was sure of it! There would be no repeats of his early attempts, the first few days they'd lived here, of those poor pancakes and eggs that had only ended up as crispy, charred remains sticking to the bottom of the frying pan. Perhaps the first step to him becoming a better cook would be to learn to relax a bit in the kitchen and therefore be not so nervous that his hallucinations actually ended up affecting him.

: : :

Perhaps he should have made the deal that Alfred leave him alone for the entire _semester_, because a day later Arthur found himself with an unwanted audience waiting for him at the field he had claimed for two hours the weekend before. The brunet grinned and waved at him even as he ignored the fool and set about in keeping up his usual routine—which was nothing, as he was merely allowing himself a bit of fun with his old Umbro Stealth Replica football.

It _really_ wasn't his fault if, more than once, the football found itself slamming into the tree trunk above Alfred's head enough to shower the American with a few autumn leaves—no, not at all. He was simply out of practice. It had been a few years since he'd played for his high school team, after all. Again, afterwards Alfred offered to take him to a late lunch, and again he sniffed and made it obvious he was in no need of hand-outs. Nevermind that the rent was due in a few days and so money was a little tight, at the moment—he still had enough to take care of himself!

About the same time (around one in the afternoon) during his Friday shift at the end of the second week of classes, that insufferable idiot strode through the front doors of Waltman Hall, a grin on his face as he approached the mailroom desk. There was no mistaking that purposeful gait, even if the Brit had yet to look up from his reading and could only peg it through his peripheral vision.

"So, hey, Artie! We're havin' the first party of the semester at my room, tonight!" The brunet had sidled up to him with his usual cocksure grin, laying an elbow on the counter top of the mailroom's front desk and leaning to peer at him over it. "You comin'~?"

Thank goodness there were no students waiting, at the moment. He glared sternly over the rims of his reading glasses at the American, before letting his gaze fall nonchalantly back to his book. It was chemistry, this time.

"I'm afraid I'll have to decline, as I'd rather keep my eardrums in proper working condition, thank you." The kid started whining again, and the Brit spared him another scathing glance.

"C'moooon, man! You need to loosen up! Playing soccer once a week by yourself doesn't cut it!" Alfred grinned, then, and leaned further onto the counter, stage-whispering conspiratorially. "There'll be boo~ooze~" Arthur snapped his gaze up and kept it up, at that, narrowing his eyes towards the oh-so-irritating one.

"Are you even old enough to drink, you twit?" Blue eyes went wide, and the brunet jerked back, slapping a hand over his mouth.

"Oh, shit! You're not gonna tell anyone, are ya Artie?" For a moment, he enjoyed the panic in those normally-confident eyes, and allowed the beginnings of a smirk to sneak over his face as the blond languidly went back to his reading, turning a page smugly.

"_Ah_, I'm not sure I couldn't. After all, the uni might well get _sued_ if there were _underage_ _drinking_ taking place in one of its dormitories—and as I am _employed_ by them I would be rather _obliged_ to act in their best interest…" He enjoyed the barely-strangled sound jutting from Alfred's throat far too much, and couldn't resist the urge to gaze evilly over his lenses at the poor boy.

"B-But everyone does it, Artie! You can't tell! You can't, I'll—" Those blue eyes went bright with an idea, suddenly, and Arthur reflexively scowled, opening his mouth to cut off the idea before it could take root.

"Whatever you're planning on—" His chemistry book was snatched from his hands without further pretense. He gaped, stuttered—and, unfortunately, this allowed Alfred to retreat to a safe distance, grinning in success and waving the textbook about in the air.

"Ha~! Now you've got to come tonight, yeah? I've got your book~"

"You—you—" He stood slowly, still partially in shock, and splayed a hand on the counter top. His gaze burned towards the—that insufferable _git! _"Give me that!" Arthur snarled, whipping out that hand to try and take it back. Alfred just grinned and hopped away, continuing to wave the text above his head.

"No way! You've gotta come tonight, or I won't give it back~! C'mon, Artie, it'll be fun!" Green eyes darted around, checking if many people were staring (there were!). _Damn_ that American, damn him!

"No! I have a chemistry exam next week, Alfred! _Give me my bleeding book!_" His response was pushed through grit teeth, and he was making an effort not to shout. This was a public place, there were other students who lived here who saw him every day, and if it were well-known that he was so easily incensed, he'd never hear the end of it! As an added annoyance, Arthur couldn't go around the desk to chase after the stupid yank—he was being paid to _man_ the desk, damn it all!

"Noooo waaay~! You've gotta come, Artie! You'll have fun!" His fingers curled into a fist at his side, wanting desperately to punch the idiot for making such a scene. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, holding it as he counted to ten in his head. Nevertheless, when his eyes opened they were still very angry, but his voice was much calmer—almost oddly quiet. Arthur raised the hand that'd been resting on the counter top and stretched his arm out towards the source of his dilemma, the palm facing upwards in simple request.

"Give me my book, Alfred." He almost sounded resigned, he thought. That textbook alone had been over a hundred dollars. He couldn't really afford to buy a new one, not with the rent and bills coming in a few days. Not to mention, over in England, Ken was sick. Who knew how he'd fare? There really was no extra money or time for foolishness like this. And what of his own problems? The fairies and creatures that only he could see—they were a daily challenge to ignore. Even now, as he thought of it, he could see a few tittering along with Alfred's teasing, spinning around the captive textbook and pulling faces at him as they jetted through the air, leaving multi-colored trails of neon stardust in their wake. The troubling thoughts only continued to circle and escalate, no doubt spinning a tired glint into his eyes.

Perhaps Alfred saw it, because he stopped dancing around like a buffoon and stared at him. There was something—Arthur frowned, identifying it as pity, and jerked his hand back, turning around to stomp back to his knapsack. At least he could still make use of this time.

"Hey, Art—?"

"You've had your fun for the day. Leave me alone. I've a psychology quiz, tomorrow." He whipped out that subject's notebook, glancing over his shoulder and scowling when he noticed the brunet just standing there, arms down at his sides, still staring at him.

"Well, what are you waiting for! Get lost!" He snapped, beyond irritated. Let the tosser keep that book, then, fine! He'd just contact one of the other lads in his class and borrow theirs to finish the chapter—or, read the chapter in the campus book store, even! "I've no intention of coming to your foolish little get-together tonight! Now, kindly leave me in peace so I might get some actual work done!" He kept up his glare a few beats longer than usual, and watched as the brunet seemed to bite his lip, then nod, and turned to wander off and bother someone elsewhere. Likely his dorm. Arthur snorted, sliding back into his seat and flipping open the notebook to begin skimming his crisp handwriting.

: : :

When he returned from his bathroom break at the end of his shift, he blinked. There, sitting perfectly innocently in front of the metal blind he'd pulled down when he left (to show the mailroom was closed)—was his chemistry book. The Brit shook his head, forcing back a relieved sigh, and went over to retrieve it. As he picked it up, he noticed a piece of paper sticking out of the top, and, curious, flipped open the cover to inspect it.

_Art-_

_Party starts 8. I get that your prolly really pissed me but u seriously need to chillax, man. Text me if u come so I can let u in, yeah?_

_555-555-5555_

_-Al_

For a few moments, all he could do was stare at the note. He twitched a little upon noticing the spelling errors and blatant use of questionable vocabulary (_chillax?)_, but… It was thoughtful, at least. He felt his cheeks get a little hot, and scoffed, stuffing the note into his pocket, marching primly to the door, unlocking it, and stepping inside to reclaim his knapsack and coat. Once out of the public eye of the common room, he hesitated, pulling the note back out of his pocket and leaning against the door. He smoothed out the fresh wrinkles, staring at it as his brow furrowed in thought.

Certainly, he had a mobile—they were all-but-required in today's world, and without the bill for cable or a landline it was just barely affordable. The blond slowly pulled it out of his pocket, fumbling around the worn edges of the device and glancing back to the note in his other hand, pausing in indecision. He didn't really text anyone, didn't have a plan for it—so the charges would be hefty if he did… but the other option was actually ringing the boy or (god forbid) posting it on his Facebook that he'd come. He winced. Who knew how often Alfred checked that site, anyway—and he didn't need everyone on there knowing what he was doing, tonight.

God, was he actually planning on going, now?

Arthur checked his watch. 4:30. He'd been standing here for twenty minutes debating this? He shook his head, making to shove both of the items back into their respective pockets and not give that do another thought, but…

The Brit paused—then, slowly began to navigate his phone.

_Contacts. _

_Options. _

_New Contact. _

_Name: …_

He paused, again, thinking lightly—before smirking a bit, and thumbing in a suitable name.

_That Daft Git_

He chuckled to himself, punching in the phone number before saving. Arthur exited out to the main screen, then re-entered into his Contacts list, checking the number against the one written in the note for the third time and that it had saved correctly. It had, so he closed the handheld and stuffed it and the scrap of paper back into his pocket with a sigh. He leaned his head back on the closed door behind him, setting his palm against his forehead to tangle fingers in his fringe as he stared vaguely up through the gaps between the digits, half-muttering to himself.

"…What the hell am I thinking."

: : :

_7:30 PM_

"_Hello, you have reached Clarence. Please leave your name and number and I shall return your call at my earliest possible convenience. Thank you for calling."_

"Ah, hello, Ren! This is Arthur. I simply thought I'd let you know I may not be back, tonight—not to worry! I'm staying over at a… friend's house, and it may run a little late, although I'll do my best to get back fairly early. I'll bell you if anything changes, but definitely by morning. Good-bye!"

: : :

_7:40 PM_

Clarence blinked lightly, emerging into his bedroom with a towel wrapped halfway around his neck. It kept the moisture from his yet-damp hair off his dry clothes, after all. What caused him to blink was the lit screen of his cell phone, it buzzing every now and then. The Japanese boy padded quietly over to the device, scooping it neatly into his hand and pressing a few buttons with his thumb. He canted his head to the side in a bit of curiosity, seeing a missed call from his room mate, and pressed a few more buttons before holding it to his ear. A few moments passed in relative silence as he listened to the message, at last pulling the phone away from his ear to stare at it in contemplation.

Well, certainly that wasn't an issue, it was good of Arthur-san to be making friends. Not that the British man was unwelcome company, but the solitude would be a nice change. Of course, Arthur had already done that. Thoughtful as he was, the blond had arranged to have an evening philosophy class every Thursday for about three hours—three hours during which Arthur-san knew he didn't have class. A slight smile tugged at his lips, and he gently set the phone back beside his computer keyboard before wandering off in search of his brush, planning to settle in for a few hours of simple relaxation.

It was about a half-hour later, when he was settled before his computer in all manner of comfortable clothing, a cup of still-steaming green tea in a mug atop a coaster and a piece of pocky dangling from his lips, that a knock at the door caused him to glance up towards the sound, with another blink. A few moments later, and there was another knock. He frowned, slightly—who would be calling, this time of night? He chided himself, then. This was America, after all—any time before nine was not seen as unreasonably late. Sighing almost sadly, he stood, placing the now-abandoned pocky stick carefully atop the napkin settled perfectly in line with his mousepad. He shuffled in his bamboo-lined slippers (they reminded him of walking on tatami mats, really) over to the door, peering out the peephole only to see the blurred figure of what looked to be someone, holding something that appeared to be… a covered dish?

Blinking again, the youth was startled out of his thoughts by yet another knock. A bit flustered for his hesitation—he didn't wish to seem rude!—he hastily unlocked the door and cracked it open, dark brown eyes lifting with a polite smile towards his guest as he peered around the edge of the door. A stranger was still a stranger, and he'd best be careful. Warm, kind green eyes settled on him beneath a shaggy smattering of bangs, although the man's expression barely shifted from slight anxiety to a hint of relief. The Asian boy's own smile softened a bit, and he opened the door a little more, nodding his head slightly in a reflexive greeting.

"Ah, good evening. I am sorry to have kept you waiting." The man paused a moment, nodding.

"It is fine. You are new around here, am I… correct?" Something about the way he phrased it, the pacing—he couldn't help but relax, straightening a bit and nodding once more.

"Yes. We just moved in, a few weeks ago—my room mate and I." He offered politely, eyes sweeping subtly over the covered dish in the man's hands. His guest seemed to notice, and stared at him not unkindly for a moment before slowly edging the thing towards him. The dark-haired boy glanced up, locking gazes with him—hesitant to take it but not wishing to seem impolite.

"It is a house… ah… apartment-warming gift. For you… and your room mate." The green-eyed man smiled at him, but it was so slight, more detectable in his gaze than anywhere else. "I am sorry… I have not had time before now to visit and properly welcome you to the neighborhood." The Japanese boy flushed, flustered for some reason, and moved aside to allow the man to enter, babbling quietly.

"Oh, no, really, it was rather rude of us. We should have gone around introducing ourselves—it's just with the university's semester starting, we've both been rather busy and—"

"It's fine." The calm voice cut gently through his fretting as the taller man stepped inside and seemed to take note of the shoes lining the hallway. He rather awkwardly slipped off his shoes—they were only slippers, it seemed—before lifting his head to smile at the shorter boy beside him. "Thank you, for inviting me in." He raised the dish, only slightly. Clarence couldn't help but smile, both at the offer and how conscientious the other man was of his traditions. Goodness knew it had taken Arthur-san a bit of effort to adjust—even if the British man hadn't been obvious about it, and Clarence certainly hadn't tried to force him to follow his own traditions. In fact, Arthur-san had said something about it making sense—taking your shoes off right when you came in, and thus bringing less dirt into the house.

"This is… galaktoboureko." At the sharp blink from the Japanese man, bringing him back to the present and out of his musings, the taller one smiled, leaning down slightly to make better eye contact. "It is a Greek dessert. I am Greek. My name is Melecio."

"A-Ah, I see. It is a pleasure to meet you, Melecio-san." He bowed his head, flustered again for some unnamable reason and making to accept the… dessert, then. "Thank you very much. Would you like to sit for a bit? I can make some tea—" He stopped as he straightened, noticing the man smiling almost dreamily down to him.

"If you would like, my new friend." Clarence bowed again, quickly, before scurrying off to set about doing just that.

"Y-Yes, yes, please follow me, we only have two chairs, thank goodness Arthur-san isn't here otherwise there wouldn't be enough—" He heard quiet footsteps behind him, and an almost absent-minded voice, as though the speaker were distracted.

"Is Arthur your room mate?" Pausing at the stove, the Asian boy smiled over his shoulder at his new acquaintance, nodding a bit as his guest slowly took a seat and set the covered platter of—galaktoboureko, was it?—on the table before him.

"Yes. He called earlier, and will be coming back rather late, tonight." Turning back to the stove, he turned the knob for the burner settled beneath the teapot. His guest was silent for the moment, and Clarence only made to face him when he had set aside two cups for tea and procured two plates for the… galaktoboureko (he would have to work on that). He was mildly surprised to see the Greek man's eyes travelling over the decorations on the walls. Melecio soon noticed his gaze, though, and turned his attention back to him with another smile. He returned it with a hesitant one of his own, slowly sinking into the chair opposite his new neighbor.

"…are you Japanese, my friend?" Blinking in surprise at the astuteness—most Westerners mistook him for Korean or Chinese, often enough—he nodded. Melecio nodded, as well, pausing a moment before speaking again. "…do you have a Japanese name?" To this, Clarence blushed bright red, it suddenly brought rather obviously to his attention that he'd never given this man his name! He jumped up, bowing hastily at the waist before him, clapping his palms together vertically in supplication and just missing the beginnings of a shocked look on the other's face due to his speed.

"I-I do, but—E-E-Excuse my rudeness, Melecio-san! There is no excuse for forgetting to introduce myself! I deeply apologize for—"

"It is all right, my friend." That voice was almost fondly amused, and he dared a glance up to see kindly glimmering jade watching him peacefully. "Please, sit… but, if you wouldn't mind—"

"O-Of course not!" Clarence slowly edged into his seat once more, gazing bashfully at the ground. "Many people here call me C-Clare. O-Or—" He stuttered, trailing off self-consciously as a bit of curiosity entered into those too-deep green eyes.

"Claire? Is Claire not usually a female name?" Ah, Clarence just knew he was blushing, again, looking down as Melecio paused to think. "…You said you had a Japanese name. I do not think Claire is Japanese, either?" There was no accusation in that tone, mere curiosity and an honest wish to understand. Taking a slow breath, Clarence lifted his head up with a weak smile.

"N-No, Melecio-san. My full name is Clarence, but many people call me 'Clare'. As for my Japanese name…" Here he paused, glancing away as his hands tightened against one another, neatly folded in his lap. "Many people here have trouble pronouncing it. To make it easier on them, I introduce myself with my adopted English name." Here he chanced a smile towards his new friend, just a bit. The Greek seemed to be deep in thought. Moments passed like hours, although the silence was not uncomfortable. The Japanese boy felt himself begin to relax, and so did not start too badly when his guest chose to speak again, green eyes locking with his own darker ones.

"…I would like to know your Japanese name, my friend. It was the name you had… before your English name, if I understood you correctly… ?" That dark, shaggy head tipped to the side, only a bit, in inquiry—and he had to smile, nodding in a polite half-bow.

"My Japanese name is Kiyoshi, Melecio-san." Clarence iterated slowly, enunciating the sounds of his name carefully as he said them. Melecio nodded, brow furrowing but then clearing as he looked up to him.

"Ki. Yo. Shi." The Japanese boy blinked, then smiled in encouragement. It was a very good pronunciation for a first try!

"Yes. My name is Kiyoshi."

The rest of the night was spent pleasantly, with Melecio asking him about Japanese culture and sharing his own in return. They also shared a good amount of the custard-filled slices of layered phyllo, but mutually leaving enough for Arthur to partake in some when he returned. The slightly bitter tea was a lovely complement to the sweet dessert, and neither thought their current company—or the way the evening was spent—could have possibly been better.

: : :

_7:50 PM_

His palms were sweaty, and he tugged at his green sweater vest—the same one he'd worn all day. He'd taken his tie off in an attempt to be more informal, stuffing it in his knapsack, which rested between his feet on the floor. He'd also rolled his white button-up shirt's sleeves to his elbows, and now his hands didn't know what to do with themselves. After he was finished in the mailroom, he'd gone to the library, as usual, and spent the hours quietly studying. He hadn't been nervously indecisive and watching as the hours rolled by, really! It's not as though he hadn't been a freshman, once, hadn't been to a drinking party…

_Except that was a long time ago, and I just stayed in my room the entire time while everyone else was in the living room. _He admitted, slightly guiltily.

His first year here, he'd managed to maneuver a deal with on-campus apartment housing. They gave him a discount, and he'd ended up living in an eight-room apartment with three other boys. Each had their own room, and there were two bathrooms, as well as a storage closet and the living room/kitchen area. Two of the boys had been rather close, and rather social, as well. They were polite, at least, and asked (warned) their other flat mates when they were planning on having a party. They'd only had three or four, the entire semester, but every time Arthur had raided the pantry just before it started, and holed himself up in his room except for quick trips to the bathroom. He avoided the loud voices and laughter in the main living area, thankful his room was at the end of the hall and that at least one of the bathrooms was reachable without having to venture into the sight of his flat mates' guests.

And now he was waiting to go to an underage drinking party (it utterly inconsequential that he'd been legally able to consume alcohol in the United States for almost a year, now). He was sitting on one of the regulation lounge chairs—the kind seen at every lounge on campus—in the common room of the building where he'd been serving as a mail clerk for going on three years. In fact, the metal blinds visible across the room were just where he'd left them after his shift, almost four hours earlier. Arthur put his head in his hands, shaking it.

_What am I thinking?_

He didn't know anyone who lived here, except Alfred, and even then the brunet was pushing an acquaintance, at most. What if they wanted him to drink? Could he refuse—especially given that he was old enough? He'd avoided the peer pressure for all the years he'd been underage (an unavoidable side-effect of being a loner), and old habits were hard to break. He'd turned twenty-one, had the brief thrill of elation that age brought, but—he found, sadly, that by then he had no one who wanted to go drink with him (not that he'd asked, he'd just known they'd refuse, so why bother?). Drinking alone was a state he would not lower himself to. What was so great about it! Alcohol dulled one's wits, and he needed them about him all the time.

_Why _was he going to this party, again?

He really couldn't think of a reason, but at this point he'd already contacted Ren. If nothing else, he had his pride, and to go back to his apartment now—it would seem pathetic. Dishonorable, too, because he knew the boy liked his alone time. As did he, but the library was usually good enough for him. Ren seemed the sort to like to hermit himself in his room with his computer or game systems, never to emerge, but he was different. Arthur didn't mind venturing out into the world, but a good book with a hot cup of tea was always preferable to a good conversation.

The blond's hands found each other, and he squeezed them together, bowing his head and resting his forehead on his knuckles, closing his eyes. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad?

_8:02 PM_

He was staring at the phone in his hand like it was a live snake. His hands were shaking, and he swallowed—before putting it to his ear. It was still ringing, maybe he could hang up and—

_"Helllooo~?" _He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. _"Eh, hi? If this is a prank call, I can hear you breathing and I've got caller ID, so—"_

"H-Hello." The babbling American paused. A few seconds ticked by.

_"Who is this?"_ He gulped, attempting vainly to swallow his nerves. Why was this so hard?

"I-it's Arthur, a-and I—" The phone practically exploded. He winced, holding it away from his ear to let the exuberant voice on the other end continue its ranting without doing damage to his eardrums.

_"ARTIE? You actually called? Why didn't you text! –HEY, so you want to come up? That's AWESOME, just give me a sec and I'll be right down to sign you in! Don't go away!" _The phone clicked, leaving him with a dial tone and his shoulders trembled as he gazed down at the device in horror.

_What have I bloody gotten myself into?_

_8:06 PM_

Arthur swore the last four minutes were the longest of his life. He'd contemplated getting up to stand, but the butterflies in his stomach wouldn't leave him alone. Perhaps it'd be better just to wait? He fidgeted, frowning at his anxiety. It wasn't like him. Sighing, he shook his head—only to start, badly, when he was as good as full-on body-tackled from his chair to the floor by a blur of brown and blue.

"ARTIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE~! I'm so glad you're here!" The Brit sputtered, anger rising to the surface as he flushed bright red!

"G-Get _off_ of me you git!" He roared—more like squeaked, as his throat had seen fit to almost close up on him what with the shock of the surprise tackle. The blond lowered his eyebrows in a fierce scowl, although by the way Alfred drew back to beam at him, the expression didn't do much good.

"Sorry, guess I got a little excited~ It's so awesome you came, though!" The brunet chirped and Arthur sighed, mentally—outwardly only frowning more and shoving the kid off before sitting up and straightening his collar. His face was still red, he knew it, but he trudged on bravely to spite it. Just his luck, before he could say anything to regain his dignity, Alfred grabbed his hand with another grin and pulled him up and over to the security officer seated behind the (presumably bulletproof) glass just on their side of the entrance to Waltman Hall North.

"C'mon, we've gotta sign you in~!" He went through the procedure, offering up his ID for scrutiny as the old wizened man squinted at him and checked his name against a list of those prohibited from entering the premises. He rolled his eyes. This uni could be so pretentious, at times. Besides his name, Arthur had to jot down his current place of residence on the sign-in sheet, which he uncomfortably did—all-too-aware that Alfred could be taking it down on his phone behind him (and thus show up at his apartment unexpectedly… he did _not _need that, thank you very much!).

Once he got his ID back, Alfred toted him through the entrance, the locks beeping as they unlocked only long enough for the door to open. The yank made a beeline for the lifts, pushing the upward-facing arrow before turning to smile at him, squeezing the Brit's smaller hand.

"Thanks for coming, Art, really." Green eyes slid to their corners, narrowing slightly as he gazed at the kid in suspicion. The brunet blushed a little, looking down and releasing his hand to rub at his own arm. "You… you got your book, right?" He blurted, too-blue eyes bearing up on him nervously. The Brit raised a brow (if he'd known to come at eight, wouldn't it have been obvious he'd gotten his book?), inclining his head just slightly before averting his gaze to the ground beside him, feeling a little bit of red sneak back into his cheeks for some reason.

"I-I did. Thank you." Beside him he guessed Alfred nodded.

"S-Sure. No problem." The doors dinged before them and it was like it never happened—the brunet was laughing, again, greeting a few people he knew before dragging Arthur in after him and pressing the button for his floor.

: : :

At first, they hadn't really done anything. In fact, the first two and a half hours involved Alfred and his flat mate screaming at each other as they pounded each other's guts in a video game. Eventually they switched to a four-player, and one of their suitemates appeared, taking Gilbert's side and leaving Arthur with Alfred. He actually held up rather well, given that Ren liked to play such games so much—so, while he was nowhere near the level these 'true gamers' were on, he could at least play well enough to avoid embarrassing himself. He wouldn't deny the proud flush he got when he managed to kill Vash's character in a stroke of luck, Alfred clapping him on the back with a proud shout. The other blond hadn't looked too happy, but nodded briskly in his direction in acknowledgement. Vash pounded him ruthlessly into the dirt in the next melee, though.

_10:44 PM_

Alfred mentioned that while Gilbert was old enough to buy alcohol—how else would they have gotten it?—they'd have to be careful, as the RA lived just across the hall from them. In fact, just as they pulled the cans and bottles out from under the bed, said RA waltzed in with a debonair smile and utterly eerie timing, gesturing to the room around him.

"You would not be zo zelfish as to not share, _non_~? Perhaps if you were ze good little boys wiz your alcohol, you would not get eento trouble, _oui_~?" Arthur gaped, then surged forward—all nervousness forgotten as the ice had been broken a while back—plunging his index finger in a deadly poke to the Frenchman's chest, brows furrowing menacingly.

"What the hell, you damn frog? They're underage! Shouldn't you at least be a _little _more—" The blond had waved him off, gesturing once more to the room around him.

"Ah, eet ees een ze stars, _mon cher_~! One cannot stop ze young boys from drinking any more zan—" He'd then shouted to cut him off, grabbing the infuriating, flowery guy by the front of his shirt and shaking him!

"You're the bloody _RA_! Resident Advisor! You're supposed to show some bleeding responsibility! What kind of divvy role model are you—" The bastard had had the audacity to wink at him, then, tipping forward to kiss him on the cheek. He spluttered, eyes white with bags showing under them in pure rage and shock, and the man smugly purred at him.

"I zink our dear _rosbif_ could use some of ze wine. Judging by your reaction, you _are_old enough to drink zis, _non_~?" That bleeding frog waved a large bottle of opened vodka procured from seemingly nowhere as he said this, smirking around his words. "Why not show zeese young ones how we do eet een Europe~~?" Arthur stuttered, again, eyes wide in nervous fright as the man had, unerringly, hit on the one thing about this evening he'd most been dreading. He tried to laugh it off, releasing the man to wave his hand as though it didn't matter at all.

"I-I-I don't need to—" Like a tiger about to enjoy a very satisfying meal. That's what that damned Frenchman's eyes looked like, right now.

"Unless you are… how you say… 'chicken', just like ze rest of _les goddams Anglais_~?" He saw red. The Frenchman was goading him by insulting his entire race, that's what he was doing. He was fucking _goading_ him with that nickname the French had stuck Englishmen with since the Hundred Years War, but, but—he couldn't let him _win_!

"Hey, Art—I think you need to calm down. You're right, you don't have to prove anything—" He barely heard Alfred's voice, oddly muted, in the background, or registered that there were hands on his shoulders, trying to tug him backward. He didn't really see that some dark-haired man he hadn't even met yet had snagged the frog's arm and was trying to draw him away with a couple of calm words. None of that mattered, though, because in another moment Arthur had lunged forward, wrenching out of the light grip on his shoulders as he grabbed the open bottle from the Frenchman's hands.

He leveled the blond's shocked face with a smug grin and upended the bottle over his face, lips sealed to the small opening. The first gulp burned, and he had to shut his eyes to focus past the contorted expression wanting to break over his face. God, it tasted awful! This was irreversibly stupid of him, but he couldn't help it. Something about that damn frog's face and words had _gotten_ to him, and his English pride wouldn't stand aside as his people were insulted!

There were yells around him, and the world gushed back into existence, the bottle wrenched from his hands after who knows how long. He gasped, lurching forward and coughing wetly as a little went into his windpipe, throat sore from the sting of the alcohol as a rush of heat abruptly engulfed his face. With a look up—a crooked smirk slowly overtaking the unavoidable grimace from the bitter taste—and a little unintentional swaying on his feet, Arthur raised the two-fingered salute towards the shocked-looking blond only passably restrained by the dark-haired man looking just as surprised beside him.

"Don't bloody insult the English, you cheese-eating surrender monkey! You wanna punch-up? Argy-bargy? _Come 'ere, I'll rip off your tonker, stick it up your arse and kick you back to France_!" And he lunged for him, again, but he didn't get far before strong arms were holding him back, a voice shouting something and soon that Frenchman was whisked out of sight. He roared in anger, throat still sore from the vodka as he was lifted off his feet. He started shouting curses to the man behind him, kicking his legs.

"Bugger—let me go, you fucking nosey parker! Shit! Goddamn spacker! Let me at that frog! I'll take your bollocks and send them through a meat grinder if you don't! Bleeding wanker! Sod the hell off!" He heard a burst of laughter and had to pause, turning his head to blink blearily behind him. There was a hundred-watt grin in his face, and the brunet holding him shook his head.

"Jeez, Arthur… I'd heard that the English and French didn't get along—but_ damn_! Never saw that one coming!" He laughed again and the blond groaned, sinking back against the yank's chest.

"Well, that was bloody_ brilliant_…" He ended up mumbling it, placing a hand to the side of his head and shaking it in an attempt to dispel the dizziness setting in. He was slowly set back on his feet, but those arms around him didn't move, settled on either of his sides and around his middle as he felt someone's chin lean to rest on his shoulder. There was silence for a moment. Then—

"Hey, Artie… You've never had alcohol before, have you?" He gave a limp shake of head, still muttering.

"Couldn't let that fucking French bastard win…" Arthur heard another chuckle, and he could've sworn there was something thin and metallic—like frames?—pressing into the side of his cheek. The voice he heard sounded like its owner was smiling.

"That was pretty cool, though—you know? I mean, we would've gotten into real trouble if you'd actually gone at it, but…" Another laugh, and the Brit smiled vaguely at the air in front of him, settling back against the warmth behind him with another mumble. "Pretty neat that you've got that much honor in ya, Artie!"

"Mmhm…" He mumbled, not really drunk (not that he knew what it felt like), but unused to the fluffy feeling spreading throughout his body. It was warm. Pleasant, that. The blond shook his head, though, blinking again at the wall in front of him as it shifted lazily.

"I'm going to be utterly pissed by the end of the night, aren't I, you plonker?" Another laugh was barked into his ear, and he could've sworn Alfred hugged him closer to his chest in response.

"Yeah, that vodka's probably going to knock you out, pretty fast…"

"Bugger all."

: : :

He really hadn't expected it, not at all. Arthur's face had just gotten so _mad_, and then he'd been drinking before anyone could really stop him. Too shocked to move, Alfred'd just stared before shouting and grabbing the Brit, dragging him away as Gilbert plucked the vodka from his hands. He'd coughed, then, but after that the blond'd spewed the weirdest-sounding insults that he guessed he'd really meant—because _damn_ if he hadn't been intending to do something that sounded really horrible to Francis!

"Bugger all." That low curse brought him back from his moment of reflection. There was a pause, after it, and somewhat-hazed green moved to glare at him suspiciously. It was hard to take seriously, though, because Arthur's eyes kept sliding unfocused and crossing themselves. "You didn't… plan this, did you, you git?" Those jade eyes were currently crossed, but it didn't stop the brunet from grinning a hint nervously, shifting to sit on the edge of his bed with the more slender man between his legs.

"Err, I… I wasn't—I mean…" He paused, thinking—then nodding. "I didn't think you'd never had anything to drink before, ya know? I figured you woulda mentioned it…"

"Prat." Was the mumbled curse, and he had to chuckle. Why did British vulgarity sound so much like a kid's word game gone wrong? "Nnn, my head…" He didn't have much choice as the blond propped against one of his inner thighs shifted, resting his head against his shoulder as his eyes fell shut. Alfred felt himself blush.

"Uh, Arthur, you're kinda—"

"Shut it. My head hurts and it's your fault, you sodding yank." He had to laugh, at that, wrapping an arm around the blond's waist so as to prevent him sliding off.

"_My_ fault? How did _I_ force you to down almost half that bottle of—"

"You invited me, I'm your guest, 's your room—_your_ fault." It was muttered in what sounded like a sulky tone, and the teen could have sworn Arthur was nuzzling into his shoulder, just a bit. He tried a glance and blushed more when he realized the blond's eyes were closed, his head angled back, those eyebrows knit—likely a testament to his headache. He echoed another anxious chortle, tipping his gaze away to focus on something—anything!—other than the too-warm body pressed flush against his own.

On his bed.

Alfred flushed, darker, upon realizing this, and almost involuntarily glanced back towards the foul-mouthed Brit in his lap. How could he still think Arthur was cute, after what he'd said? It didn't really make sense, but then again his continuing to contact the guy didn't make sense, either. He knew when Arthur's mailroom shift was—well, the Friday one, at least (right after his philosophy recitation!)—and he could've easily avoided him. He'd then run into him, randomly, caught up in the way the blond effortlessly handled his soccer ball, that day. He'd just about asked Arthur on a date, twice… The American felt his face grow red again, subconsciously wrapping his arm a little more around that slender hip.

No one was _that_ dense, but the alternative made him cringe.

After all, it was quite possible that Arthur simply wasn't into men.

(Their current almost-cuddling predicament notwithstanding—he was drunk, after all!)

_11:15 PM_

"C'mon, Artie, gotta help me out, here…" Alfred grunted, half-pulling the drunk Brit along as they made their way out to one of the benches in front of Waltman Hall. The streetlamps were glowing brightly above them, giving him a sense of security as they waited for the cab he'd called, a few minutes ago. His hand curled around the small slip of paper in his pocket, sporting Artie's street address (which he'd copied down from the sign-in sheet as he'd paused to sign his friend back out).

_6402 Mallard Avenue_

He shook his head. Who named the streets in this crazy city? He didn't think the blond was sober enough to even contemplate paying for his cab fare, and he really wanted to make sure he got home safely, so—said companion flailed a bit, interrupting his thoughts once again as he gestured wildly.

"Y-Yer a soddin' yank, you know!" Brows creased together fiercely as Arthur prodded a hard finger into the younger man's chest, declaring his opinion rather loudly as he swayed slightly from where he was seated beside him. "Youu… invite me here—" Another prod. "—get m' mullered—" Another. "—'nd then take m' outside to rape me in the street!" He flushed as that hand flung out in a wide sweep, grabbing Arthur's arm with a hiss.

"Be quiet! I'm not! We're just waiting for a cab so I can—"

"_Yer takin' me to a bloody __**hotel**__ to shag me?"_ He winced, pulling the blond back down and firmly setting his hand on the other's nearest shoulder to both steady the man in his seat and keep him in place, glaring seriously into those glazed, lime-green eyes.

"No! _Arthur_, listen to me! I'm just taking you home to sleep this shit off! Now sit down and shut up!" Alfred glared, and held it even as the Brit gazed at him vacantly, head tipping a little bit like a side-to-side boggle-head doll.

"Ohhh…" The blond muttered, thickly, swaying until he somehow managed to bump his forehead against his friend's shoulder and rest there, again. Pretty green gazed up at him through fair, sweaty bangs, a trembling, tiny smile slipping carelessly onto the Brit's flushed face as the drunkard poked at his chest, drawing big circles in the fabric a little playfully.

"Maybe yer not a _soddin'_ yank, then…" It was almost a sultry purr, what with how husky that accented voice was, and he—he couldn't help but flush, lifting a hand to rest on the middle of the blond's back as he coughed, pointedly looking away and begging for the telltale lights of a yellow taxi to appear down the street.

"E-Eh, yeah, Arthur, the cab should be—" Something soft trailed along his neck and the words died in his throat, hand tightening on the fabric of the other's sweater vest as he froze. "A-Art? What're you—"

"'s warm." It was practically cooed, muffled against his skin as the Brit nosed into his collar, Arthur's bangs gentle against his neck as the intoxicated man sighed warmly with an absent hum. Alfred coughed, again, lifting a hand to rest on the guy's shoulder and firmly push him away, ignoring the raging heat on his own face as those glazed eyes settled on him, red rosy lips parting to protest—

He swallowed. Hard.

_Dammit!_

"A-Arthur, we've gotta wait for the cab, okay? Could you not—" The rolled-up cuffs of the blond's button-up shirt brushed his ears as his friend moved only closer, linking those slim-but-strong arms around behind his neck with a ridiculously happy half-smile fixed on that reddened face.

"Yer… pretty fit, yeah?" He swallowed, trying to lean away but Arthur just moved with him. They ended up with the Brit's weight pressing the bookbag slung over his shoulder into the small of his back and against the bench armrest behind him, their chests flush with one another. He could feel the heat of the vodka raging through his friend's body, with the close proximity—and began to stutter only more as Art's eyes went half-lidded, and he began to lean down.

"A-A-Ah, yeah, Art, I t-try to keep in shape, y-you know how it is…" He smiled nervously, using the hand still on the Brit's shoulder to try and push him back, just a little. The blond relented, sliding his rear back onto the seat beside him but not giving up his hold, drawing Alfred towards him with another of those must-be-unintentional purrs in the back of his throat.

"Yeah, Al? That's well good…" Oh, god. He just knew his face was too red, at this point. His eyes kept flickering down to Arthur's mouth, made only worse when bad timing caught him—the Brit's little pink tongue sneaking out and wetting his own lips with a flirty little smirk as he was pulled closer with an accompanying warm mumble. He felt a clumsy hand raking its fingers through his hair.

"A-Art, I don't think—" He heard a throaty sound of irritation, and a light pull on his hair as he was tugged closer, those expressive brows furrowing in front of him as cloudy jade ate at him, the blond mumbling something—

"Codswallop." Just like that, he found the muttering lips pressed against his cheek and shuddered, fingers tightening on the other's shoulders as his eyes shut tight while heat curled in his stomach. Warm breath beat over his face in small puffs as Arthur angled his head a bit more, digits curling through his hair, rubbing against his scalp. Bright lights on his closed eyelids made them fly open as the light-haired brunet jerked back into reality, and he shoved the Brit well away from him, face red as a fire engine and breaths heavy.

_Did we almost just… ?_

Alfred shook his head, grabbing Arthur's arm at the elbow for better leverage and pulling him up and over to the waiting taxi. He opened the door, putting a hand on the top of the Brit's head as he pushed him inside, slipping in after and reading off the slip of paper for the address. The cabbie nodded, and after he wrenched the door shut they started to pull off into the street. He had to fight with Arthur a little bit to get his seatbelt on, but at last succeeded and flopped into his own side of the backseat, snapping the little clip neatly into place by his hip with a weary sigh.

He practically jumped out of his skin when a weight thumped onto his shoulder, snapping his gaze to the source. But Arthur's eyes were just closed, although his face was red, and he was still mumbling a bit, only more subdued. The ride passed relatively quietly, and he tried to ignore the hand nudging and pawing at his thigh. They pulled into the street, and then a small condominium parking lot. His brows knit, glancing around at the numbers. The American checked the slip of paper in his pocket, again.

_6402._

So, was that the apartment number, or… ? Firmly guessing that's what it must be, he told the driver to wait. He'd be back, he just needed to drop his friend off at his apartment, first. The guy waved at him, setting the car to idle and Alfred gave him a grateful smile in the rearview mirror before tending to his drunken companion.

"All right, Artie! We're here! Let's get you inside…" He let himself out and closed the door behind him, walking over to the Brit's side of the car. He managed to maneuver Arthur out, slinging one of the blond's slender arms over his shoulders and half-dragging him to the sidewalk, the guy's footsteps at best clumsy and slow. He gave a quick glance around, seeking out the numbers—aha! He spied the 6390s a little ways down, keeping a close eye on how the numbers went up to his right. Relieved that 6402 happened to be a basement apartment, he carefully descended the steps with his friend in tow. He glanced at the door, deflating a little. Half-hopeful, he tried it. Locked, of course. It was almost midnight! He winced, glancing at the blond practically hanging off him and… dammit, again nuzzling into his shoulder! Alfred cursed, giving up all hope and just banging on the door, hoping Arthur had a room mate.

There was _no way in hell_ he was digging through the pockets for the key to the apartment of the drunk Brit who'd just tried to fucking _kiss_ him! –Well, unless it was an absolutely last resort! He shook his head, yelling a little in case they were asleep.

"Hey—Hello! If anyone's in there, could you—" To his great relief, the lamp clicked on behind him, flooding the doorway in light and soon enough it opened, revealing a rather perplexed-looking Asian man in pajamas, quite a bit shorter than him. Those mild brown eyes widened when they shifted to his companion, a hand coming up to politely hide the man's open mouth.

"A-Arthur-san!"

"Oh, thank god." He grinned as best he could, stepping into the threshold and the dark-haired man skirted skillfully out of the way, shutting the door behind them as Alfred managed to stumble down the hallway with the half-asleep blond trailing behind him with a few more muttered British curses under his breath. Arthur's room mate darted in front of him, then, gesturing towards what he guessed was the correct bedroom. They made it, and he deposited the by-now snoring mail clerk onto his bed with not an ounce of grace, only sparing him a glance to make sure he didn't roll off before dropping Arthur's backpack on the floor beside the bed. The American then turned with a friendly-if-tired smile to the poor man he'd woken in the middle of the night, sticking out a hand.

"Heya! I'm Alfred. Sorry to bug ya so late, Artie just had a little too much to drink, is all." The man blinked at him, glancing towards the slumbering Brit behind him before hesitantly extending his own hand in greeting and giving a light shake, as well as nodding his head a bit, politely.

"Ah… I see. Thank you, Alfred-san. My name is Clarence." He smiled, clapping the kid on the shoulder.

"Nice to meet ya, Clare! Well, I've gotta be getting back, taxi's waitin' outside!"

With that, he headed out of the apartment just as quickly as he'd come, speeding off and paying the driver the twenty-some dollars for the round-trip fare when they got back to the dorm. Getting up to his room was a blur until he at last collapsed onto his bed in exhaustion, groaning softly when his face buried itself into the soft, cool pillow.

_Man, what a night!_

: : :

Naturally, he didn't venture out to play soccer that day. He had a terrible headache, and couldn't remember much after he'd so _stupidly_ downed half a bottle of vodka in less than a minute. He'd been utterly smashed last night, that was for certain, but he'd woken up in his own room with Ren hovering over him like a worried hen. The Japanese boy had chided him about drinking responsibly. He waved it off, grabbing some painkillers for his headache before Ren had swatted them out of his hands, handing him a banana milkshake instead. He didn't ask too many questions (they hadn't had bananas before this morning), just sipped at it quietly as he suffered another soft-spoken (and politely brief) lecture from his flat mate. The shake seemed sweeter than usual, but it did quench the awful thirst raging throughout his system. Really, he'd been rather irresponsible last night. It wasn't like him, but that damn French frog had just set him off… Arthur sighed, setting the empty glass on the table beside him and curling back up in bed, stuffing the pillow over his head to block out the daylight.

_Ugh, I'm never drinking again!_

: : :

He had his nose stuck in his linguistics class' PowerPoint print-out, this time, looking over the IPA symbols and musing over their pronunciations when he heard the telltale clearing of a throat. He made the mistake of looking up, and sat a little straighter as he saw the sheepish, embarrassed smile strewn all over the brunet's guilty face. It'd been a week since that fateful party, and while he'd noted a few missed calls from '_That Daft Git'_, he'd been lax in belling him back. Classes, studying and work tended to get in the way of a proper social life, after all. Sliding his reading glasses off his face, the Brit rose to a dignified standing position, setting them aside as he lifted his gaze to the yank before him—bright blue on wary green. For a beat, there was an awkward silence.

"Five-fourteen, right?" It was crisp and professional, that tone, and he made to go get the stupid tosser's mail—but was stopped, a hand lightly grasping his forearm and attached to none-other than the yank who'd reached across the counter.

"Hey, Arthur— We're… we're still friends, yeah? I-I mean before you… er—before_ that_ happened, you were having fun, right?" He spared the brunet a scathing glance, snapping irritably.

"If you think I'd want _anything_ to do with you, you bloody yank, after you got me completely _sloshed _and toted me home, you're barmy!" He wrenched his limb out of the boy's grip with another hard glare, stalking down the grid of mailboxes with a few muttered curses. He returned not a minute later, pausing a few steps away as he noticed that Alfred hadn't moved too much, staring dejectedly at the desk before him. Frowning, he strode forward, sharply flicking the boy on the head with the week's worth of envelopes in his hand. The kid jumped, too-clear eyes locking on his own.

"Completely barmy." He couldn't quite quash the smile that was threatening to curl up a corner of his mouth, glancing down at the mail as he held it out, expecting it to be taken. To his surprise, a hand grasped his own (still holding the mail) and he blinked, looking up to catch a wide grin before he was drawn into an enthusiastic hug (pulled halfway over the counter!), relieved laughter echoing breathlessly in his ear.

"Yeah, guess I am! To have a friend like you~" Oh, and that voice was warm, and… He blushed a little, awkwardly raising his free hand to level a few brisk taps on the brunet's back, clearing his throat.

"Yes, yes, now if you'll excuse me…" A tad flustered, he immediately retreated to the back room as Alfred released him from the impromptu embrace, hearing a few chuckles echo out behind him until he closed the door. He leaned back against it, casting a strange, tiny smile towards the piles of packages waiting to be delivered.

_He really is daft, isn't he?_

The Brit chuckled, shaking his head and sliding a hand to his pocket, grasping his mobile lightly.

: : :

_Reviews would make me really happy! [Birthday presents~? :3 ] Might also make me update faster…_

_You have no idea how much effort and time went into this monster. x/x -Fox_


	2. 十月

**_This is AU. Really AU. So AU that some characters' names have been changed. Don't like it? Go read something else!_**

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of its characters. Those belong to Himeruya Hidekaz-sensei, who made a lot more out of them than I ever could have. ^^;; I just do fanfiction for fun, and earn no monetary rewards for writing it. Reviews are, of course, worth as much as silver.

_Summary: Unauthorized opening, inspection or tampering of mail is considered a federal offense and thus punishable by law. One wonders if this statute applies to the employees, as well._

Title: Tampering With Mail Clerks Is Illegal

Chapter Two: 十月 (Japanese)

_Chapter Two: October_

Word Count: 18,824

Page Count: 28

[Total Word Count: 36,848]

[Total Page Count: 55]

Anime: Hetalia  
Pairing(s) in this chapter: Alfred/Arthur [America/England], North Italy/Germany, Sweden/Finland, Russia/America, South Italy/Spain

Warning: Language (Arthur, mostly), BL

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)  
Date: Monday, June 7, 2010

[On 13 Favorites and 18 Author Alerts] DDD: Holy crap! And that's only with chapter one up!

[17 reviews for 320 hits!] Can't respond. A wee bit drunk on feedback (due to being starved from the old fandom) as well the high hit count. Call back later~?

_**Fic Recs: **__**After All, It Was a Great Big World**__** by JediShampoo on LJ** [__ h t t p : / / j e d i s h a m p o o . l i v e j o u r n a l . c o m / 1 0 3 0 6 3 . h t m l ]__, __**Lenient Judgment**__** on LJ**_ _[ h t t p : / / h e t a l i a - k i n k . l i v e j o u r n a l . c o m / 1 0 4 5 6 . h t m l ? t h r e a d = 1 5 3 1 4 9 0 4 # t 1 5 3 1 4 9 0 4 ], __**BFFF**__** by CryHOg here on FF**__ [ h t t p : / / w w w . f a n f i c t i o n . n e t / s / 5 6 9 7 0 1 4 / 1 / B F F F ] and __**Infinity, by JediShampoo on LJ **__[ h t t p : / / j e d i s h a m p o o . l i v e j o u r n a l . c o m / 9 5 7 9 0 . h t m l ]__._

Miscellaneous notes (May 22, 2010): This chapter is sooooooooo full of stuff~! I hope everyone likes it, as it took a lot of effort! :3 We even have some of the other countries rearing their heads, a little! Also, to anonymous reviewers… I appreciate your comments, but I can't reply unless you log in. D:

Kiku=chrysanthemum, Kiyoshi=quiet/shining/intelligent. Heracles=(a variation of)Hercules, Melecio=quiet and attentive. Their canon names fit the stereotypical images of their countries, and the names I chose (with much care and deliberation!) fit their personalities better, I think. That's why I changed them.

As for the random references to Bamse and Vargen—wiki _Bamse_, which is a Swedish cartoon show. I won't explain the full significance here 'cause it'll take too long, but check it out if you want to understand the references in that scene~! :3

Also, the slight Russia/America that will be in here is especially for my friend who is reading through this fic as I write. Thanks so much to onlytomriddle, here on FF~! You're the best, most helpful Japanese/fandom/irl-related friend I could ask for (that spans all of those categories—then no one feels unwanted or shifted! xDD ;;; )! :333 [I'm sorry it didn't end up being too much, because I had to end the chapter, but there may be more in store in the future~!]

Poland is a bit hard to write, but he and Spain amuse me so much with their scene. xDD

_**Eve: If you would give me an e-mail address where I could contact you and we could discuss the issue(s) like perfectly rational people I would appreciate it. The way you're going about this, it feels rather like a one-sided attack and I am given no other route to defend myself besides deleting your reviews. Yes, I got defensive about it. What did you expect? It had nothing to do with the story, you were just harping on me. That's why I deleted your review. Don't assume about people you don't know.**_

Edit 6/9/2010: Thanks so much to ItachiEnvy for correcting my Spanish! It's all properly changed from '_dias_' to '_noches_', now. :3 Thanks again for taking the time to tell me~!_**  
**_

_This chapter was written to the music listed below._

Songs: World Is Mine (by Hatsune Miku), Pub and GO!, Absolutely Invincible English Gentleman, Country From Where The Sun Rises, Excuse Me I Am Sorry, Gee (by SNSD), W.D.C., Pechka, Winter, Aiyah! Four-Thousand Years, Hello China

Albums:_ Nevermind The Bollocks, Here's The Sex Pistols_ (by the Sex Pistols), _London Calling_ (by The Clash)

**Important notes: I've changed some of the countries' human names because some of the original ones bother me/are rather hard to remember/don't fit the characters, in my opinion. I'll try to explain them as the fic progresses, though!**

: : : : : : :

The first Friday of the month found Arthur strolling to his usual campus shop just before noon, his psychology recitation having let out only a few minutes before. He hadn't stayed to discuss with the TA afterwards, though, and so was a tad earlier than normal. He gestured to a scone in the window, briskly rattling off his usual order of black tea with milk, stepping forward to pay. Once having procured his beverage, he turned to re-enter the busy hall full of bustling students and professors alike, and nearly ran into someone.

"Oh, heavens, excuse me! I'm afraid I wasn't looking, are you—" He rushed, bottle green eyes wide as brown ones set in a face just as dark slowly locked on them. He felt a rush of cold air through his lungs, stealing his breath as he registered the person. Nevertheless, he straightened politely and put on a slightly forced smile. His fellow Brit smiled at him, nodding a bit before glancing off, shouldering her purse (which was rather big enough to hold quite a few textbooks) a bit quietly, her accent light.

"All right, Arthur?" He smiled, firmly angling his mouth upward into the expression, refusing to be cowed by the emotions running rampant over his mind. He quietly tucked them away, mentally taking a deep breath and plowing onward with common courtesy.

"Yes. All right, Mumbi? You made it into the uni, then? Good show. Aidan and you doing well?" The blond nodded along with the first part of his statement.

"Y-Yes, thank you. Quite well." They stood in uncomfortable silence as the campus coffee shop continued to serve its long line of patrons. Finally, the younger Brit bit her lip and made to step carefully around him, casting a glance back with an awkward smile of her own, dark eyes deep and sad.

"If you'll excuse me, I have a class at noon—"

"Of course. Cheers, then." He raised a hand in farewell, again forcing his face to lift into that unfelt expression.

"C-Cheers."

Only when she had disappeared into the left-hand staircase at the end of the hall did he let it fall, eyes dropping to the hot cup of still-steaming tea in his other hand. His fingers tightened around the plastic cup as well as the bag that held his scone in that same hand. Soon enough the Brit brushed it off, shaking his head and striding purposefully forward.

Perhaps it would be best to be early to work, today.

: : :

Arthur was resting his pencil against the book open in front of him, absently leaning his cheek on the knuckles of his fist, eyes distant. He'd completely forgotten that Mumbi had been aiming to attend uni in America. After all, what were the odds? After all, she was from his general area of England… They'd kept meeting up, for years, at the local festival and perhaps he'd really liked her since he first set eyes on her, but with her being about three and a half years his junior it was a little difficult. He'd held off on setting about courting her, believing she'd have no interest and so why should he give himself over to more useless heartache? He called her, around New Year's, on a whim, and to his great surprise she'd started flirting with him, and within a week they were dating. At that point, it had been nearly a year since his last romantic escapade, and so this time around he was a bit more cautious. Yet, it had seemed that they clicked, so he had foolishly allowed himself to hope that this time, perhaps…

It hadn't ended well. Apparently her best friend, a lad much closer to her age and who knew much more about her than Arthur could ever hope to—ah, it was such an idiotic, stupid thing of him! Subconsciously, he frowned, recalling that. To think, Mumbi had been in love with this boy for four years, and had still sought out another relationship. It had been a rather weak bond between she and Arthur, as in the end it had only taken that 'best friend' confessing that _he loved her after all_, for her to dump him.

That had been about six months ago, so it was too natural that his heart was still a bit stiff. He'd recalled taking a deep breath, reeling in his anger but being very stern with her that one did _not_ enter into a relationship with someone if they were still pining over another (fucking high school children and their emotional drama!). The worst part was, in the one month they'd dated, he'd started to really believe—well, the point was, it wasn't meant to be. It'd slipped his mind, though, that she would be a freshman in college and it was really dumb luck that she'd ended up attending the very uni he did. Then again, life was full of odd tricks, like that. He hadn't spoken to her in just over three months, after all, and perhaps she'd kept it quiet from him, but…

The blond raised his pencil-free hand to his face, propping his forehead against the side of it to shadow his eyes and sighing deeply. He really was useless, like this. He very well knew that somewhere he was secretly hoping she would come back, and perhaps in the end he hadn't handled it in the best of ways. He'd been beyond annoyed with the lad (and still was!), though—who waited to confess until the person they supposedly 'loved' was in another relationship?—and perhaps his anger had gotten a little ahead of him. Honestly, though, he'd tried his best to take it well. It had been Mumbi's first 'real relationship', after all, and he didn't quite feel the part of playing the ex-boyfriend who only wished to ruin their ex-girlfriend's life. She had been so insistent, though! He'd told her he couldn't see her as a friend, but she had pushed and almost cried about losing him and he had caved, falling prey to his own soft heart once again.

It only grew worse from there. He knew he needed distance after a relationship split—he wasn't one who took break-ups all that well (once he cared, he was stuck)—and without it he had become a bit clingy and rather barmy about the whole subject. In the end, it had been a hurt-filled (but he did a smashing job of hiding it behind anger) message to her on Facebook filled with expletives (left by him) that caused her to start ignoring his attempts at contact. After a week, he'd collected himself up and refrained from trying to contact her, at all. The entire time, he simply tried to console himself with the obvious fact that she was happy with her choice, and had gotten the person she'd really wanted. That was the most important bit about it, wasn't it? Mumbi was happy, and while the entire fiasco was still a sore spot for him, how could he seek to ruin that 'perfect ending', for her? It would really be too selfish of him, so he had ignored most of the pain, plowing through the following months with a single-minded determination not to let it get to him.

Had it really only been a few months since they'd spoken? Arthur shook his head. The wound was too fresh, and it certainly had nothing to do with the absolutely ludicrous idea that this time it had hurt so much because he really didn't have that much luck in finding people who related to him. Or, perhaps it was something else? It might because—for the first time in one of his stunted, doomed relationships—he'd actually gone so far as to allow himself to hold his lover's hand without fear of being seen as too forward (however briefly and meekly the act may have been).

Either way, he'd never been the type to attract members of either sex (being far too shy to try to emulate his classmates' dating experiments), and long ago he'd given up and simply allowed his mother-hen side to see all people he met (and didn't immediately dislike) as some sort of family. In middle school it had been the worst—not having really any friends, and instead reading through his lunch period quietly alone, empty seats all around him. He'd never been popular, always rather unremarkable, easy to miss, easy to forget, easy to walk all over if people knew the right buttons to push.

Arthur sighed, again, shifting a few fingers to rub at his temple, gazing morosely at the chemistry homework before him. It wasn't hard, it was just an introductory course and therefore filling one of his Gen. Eds., but something about seeing Mumbi today had just dredged up all those horrible, aching memories that he would so desperately love to forget, but knew he couldn't.

A tapping (the words a mere afterthought) on the desk before him caused him to look up.

"Hey! You there, man?" He responded automatically, tone bland.

"Yes?" …oh. He registered the face, belatedly connecting it to the voice a moment later, and began to stand, running a hand back through his hair with a sigh and gazing off towards the mailboxes.

"Oh, it's you." He searched for the familiar number in his mind, but somehow it had been pushed out with all his musings and so the blond finally gave up, blinking faintly towards the American currently frowning at him a little.

"What was your room number, again?" Those blue eyes looked unhappy at the response, the light-haired brunet's lips puckering up a bit in a slight pout.

"I've been coming here for a month, and you've always remembered it before…" The Brit exhaled slowly, forcing patience and good humor into his tone.

"Just a bit of a bad day. What number?" The younger man's lips screwed to the side in what looked like frustration, sharp eyes flicking back and forth, watching his own tired green ones.

"…Five-fourteen, Artie. Same as always." The Brit nodded, going about to fetch the mail in silence. He returned a little over a minute later, offering a polite smile as he held it out.

"Here you are, then. Have a pleasant day." The yank's lips scrunched up a bit more as he winced, reaching to take the proffered envelopes and looking off to the side with a mutter.

"You're actin' too nice. What happened?" Arthur felt the corner of his mouth twitch in annoyance. He was under no obligation to share his personal relationship failings with the dolt before him, really. Did Americans not understand the concept of privacy? …He thought back, for a moment, to the celebrity pictures splashed over the magazine covers he had glimpsed at the convenience store on the way home, last night, and shook his head. Apparently not.

"It's nothing to concern yourself over." He put the answer mildly, sitting back down and looking about for his reading glasses, brow furrowing when they were nowhere in sight. He started feeling around for them, growing increasingly unaware of Alfred's presence until the bloke cleared his throat.

"What're you lookin' for?" Arthur muttered his response without real concentration on the words, lips curving down in annoyance as he shuffled through the papers on the top of the desk once more, before beginning to glance around beneath him.

"My reading glasses. I can't seem to—"

"You mean these?" A sharp tap to one of the lenses perched on his face made Arthur start, and he blinked, gazing up at the half-smile on the brunet's face as he at last registered that he'd been wearing them all this time. His cheeks heated, and he frowned a little in chagrin as he glanced down, absently adjusting the spectacles with one hand as he coughed into the other before making to shuffle the sheets splayed out over his chemistry book, needlessly.

"…Yes. Those." He couldn't bring himself to force out the thank you (pride dented atop all else!), and so primly continued staring at the problems in his textbook, willing his flush to recede and ignoring the American's very existence. After a moment or two he heard a soft, amused snort, and a hand pressed down on the top of his head, ruffling his hair. Embarrassed only more with the gesture, he swatted the limb away impatiently, brows wrinkling together and gaze sparking in indignation as he lifted it, mouth opening with a good mind to—

"See ya, Artie." Alfred was already walking away, half-lifting his arm at the elbow to wave lightly behind him.

: : :

When he arrived at the lower field, gym bag in tow, the next day—sure enough there was an annoying prat waiting for him by his usual tree. Arthur dropped his satchel by another tree's trunk, bending to dig his football out of his bag, and ignoring the loud, cheery babbling going on nearby. That was all he'd been doing to deal with the twit, since this started. He wouldn't speak to the brunet, not even a greeting, until he was too worn out from the exercise to care. Arthur twitched—it was time for this to stop. Glaring, the Brit's brows furrowed mightily as he at last whipped around, stalking over to the boy, the ball cushioned between his side and a bent elbow—well set to confront him at last about _leaving him the hell alone to play in peace! _The underclassman grinned up at him as he whipped out a finger, shaking it angrily.

"Stop coming here! You've been doing so for over a month now, and I see well enough of you alr—"

The ball popped forcefully out of its spot set against his side, interrupting him and leaving a hole in the air between his arm and the red jersey. It rolled a little ways away, he could hear it, before coming to rest. Alfred's cheeky expression did not fade as he looked up at him, leaned back on straight arms. The American did eventually place his foot back down on the ground from its unexpected kick, though. Arthur was flabbergasted for a moment—before then raising his voice, bristling as he recovered from the surprise.

"What the _bloody hell_ was_ that _for! You—" There was an annoying chortle and then he just caught sight of a blur of light brown and white, and the underclassman was running after the ball he'd kicked. Arthur sputtered, but wasted no time in chasing after the idiot.

"W-What are you—! That's _my_ ball, you sodding yank!" A glimmer of a bright, confident grin was all that followed that, and soon the brunet was off across the field, navy shorts fluttering against his thighs and dribbling the football easily with another bout of laughter in his voice.

"Let's see if you can get it back, _old man_~!" Arthur's hackles rose further, and he shouted for all he was worth across that field as he continued to run, eyes white and veins popping all over his blond hair. He wasn't _that_ old, only had a few years on Alfred—_surely _only a few!

"ARGH! _Get back here_!" He sprinted, cleats sinking neatly into the firm ground (it was already mid-fall, after all) as he made a beeline for the annoying boy, green-as-grass eyes narrowing and flicking to the side. He darted out a moment later, neatly swiping around to snag the football from the American's wide dribbles. Clearly, Alfred had never played the game properly! Smirking at his advantage, he tossed his blond head, proudly, dribbling a good distance away and slowing to a jog before glancing smugly behind him.

The huge, blue-eyed American was bearing down on him with an altogether too focused look, and the Brit let out a brief, garbled squawk before taking off again, racing back down the field with close, fast dribbles and keeping the ball safely guarded. He silently thanked himself that he'd come here to work out for a few hours, every Saturday. It would soon end, as fall was fading fast—but for now he'd enjoy it.

Or, he _would_, if he weren't being chased by an altogether loony American brat!

Reading his opponent's next move, he nudged the football with a well-placed forceful toe and jumped over the brute's attempt at a trip, throwing him a dirty look over his shoulder as he regained control of the ball further down the field, yelling behind him as the idiot kept chasing him. The blond dribbled effortlessly, not exactly looking where he was going.

"Geh! So persistent! Leave me alone, git-face!" Another laugh was all that greeted him, and Arthur frowned deeply, not seeing why such a wide smile should spread over that infuriating chap's face at his words. It did, though, and that ridiculous expression colored the kid's voice.

"Aw, but Artie~! It's fun, and we're friends, yeah? Friends should have fun together!" He blinked, surprised at that answer. Friends… ? They weren't— His brow furrowed, and he subconsciously slowed to deny the statement.

"W-What? We're not friends, you—"

"HA!" Too late, he realized the tactic and almost fell flat on his face as the football was snatched from his influence. Another vein popping in his head in anger, he roared, streaming down the field with quick steps to make up for that American's blasted long legs!

"And we are _so_ friends! You've been to my dorm~!" Those obnoxious snickers were really grating on his nerves, and he flung himself only more into his goal, streaming down towards the yank, eyes white again with rage.

"SHUT IT, YOU! That doesn't mean _anything_!" There was a snide giggle, and he pursed his lips in annoyance as the American dodged with alarming grace, casting a charming, egotistic smile back towards him.

"Besides, Artie! I towed you home after you got drunk! That has to mean something, right~?" His entire neck and face flushed at that reminder (he couldn't recall that night, after all!), and his only reasonable response was to start yelling again, despite the accidental sputtering that curled around his words.

"Th-That was an accident! I'd n-_never_ done that before—a-and I _certainly_ won't be doing it, again!" The Brit lunged for the ball, a leg outstretched and trying to nick it from between the light-haired brunet's even, smooth strides. There was another flash of white, and he spared a moment to realize the yank was grinning at him, yet again. He grit his teeth in frustration.

"Aw, Artie~ It's not so bad! You just… have to—" Alfred's words got a little choppy as his foe made another go for the ball, this time managing to neatly toe it out from between his legs. He skirted around the confused bloke with all the speed of a seasoned player and tapped the inside of his feet against the rolling sphere a few times to lessen the kinetic energy and regain control a few meters away—stopping it. Arthur straightened for an instant, casting a superior, triumphant smirk back behind him. The American sighed, pausing himself for a moment and running a hand back through his disheveled tawny hair, casting a wry smile towards him and finishing his sentence, at last.

"…you just have to go a little easy on the stuff, ya know? No chugging half a bottle of vodka on your first try!" The chap shook his head, propping a hand on a hip as he offered another brash, bothersome smile.

"Hell, man, that took some balls. Gil's still laughing about it! Everyone knows you're just supposed to drink vodka in shots, not guzzle it!" His own face had just gotten redder and redder as the yank went on, and he cut him off at the end with a flustered bark.

"I-I knew that!" The flaxen-haired Brit turned, shoulders bunched up near his neck, arms straight at his sides and so tense they were almost shaking. He threw another glare over his shoulder, visage burning shamelessly. "Leave me alone, idiot! You're interrupting my practice time!"

"Oh, yeah?" The kid leered at him, leaning forward. "Practicing for what? You're not on the soccer team here, although with those moves maybe you should be~!" His mouth dropped open, thick brows creasing together in momentary confusion—but then Alfred ran at him again and he cursed, once more being forced to sprint away.

"Damn it all! Leave me _alone!_"

: : :

He'd been here for more than two hours, this time, he was sure. At the moment the American was sprawled out on the ground between two trees and vaguely beside him, covered in dirt and sweat, his breathing noisy and heavy. Arthur was certainly much more dignified, leaned against the very tree that he'd dropped his bag by, earlier. In contrast to his underclassman's lazy posture, he only had one leg out, the other propped up at the knee with an elbow rested on the ground. Alfred's head was about equal with his cleats, the yank's waist around where the Brit leaned against the tree, only a meter or so of sparse grass separating them. The blond absently dabbed at the sweat on his forehead and the back of his neck with the small towel procured from his satchel, checking his mobile in the relative quiet.

"Hey… what's that?" He lifted his head, to see what the yank was referring to—ah. His wristband. Lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug, he went back to navigating the device and checking for any missed calls, accented voice bored.

"An English Lion."

"Hmmm? Can I see it?" He cast a sharp glance over to the yank, who only gave him a big smile. Arthur forced himself to bite out a response.

"The _last _time you took something from me, you threatened not to return it. I'd rather not have a repeat of that incident." He sniffed snobbishly, and ignored the pout spreading over the brunet's face. He heard a soft grumble and some shifting, carefully watching the lad from his peripheral vision as he simultaneously skimmed over his recent calls. His brows lifted up in surprise. Adie had called? He frowned. Now certainly wasn't the best time to call her back (due to the fact she was likely starting work as well as his current company), but—

Strong fingers wrapped around his left lower arm, jerking it to the side, and he blinked stupidly for an instant at the empty space his mobile had occupied before looking over. Arthur nearly jumped at the close, inquisitive face examining the white English Lion stitched neatly into his red wristband.

"Wh-What are you _doing?_" He managed to gasp out, utterly flummoxed at this strange turn in behavior. Then he frowned as the pieces connected, bristling and trying to pull his hand back with a belligerent snarl.

"Refraining from giving it to you _doesn't_ mean _come over here and look_, you twit!" At last, blue eyes flicked up to acknowledge him, a curve tugging up a corner of that infuriating yank's mouth. He tapped the embroidered design with the pad of his thumb. The blond's brain began to slowly register that Alfred's other four fingers were—rather gently—circled around his skin. His mobile felt loose in his hand as he flushed and hated it, mind sinking low into the ground with shame.

"This is pretty cool." The brunet mused, gaze falling back to the object, completely unaware of his friend's distress as his digits shifted a bit, thumb again brushing over the embroidered pattern atop the absorbent terry cloth. Just as Arthur felt his face bloom steadily darker, Alfred glanced back up at him with another slight smile. At that, he came to his senses, ripped his hand out of the other's grasp and simultaneously whipped a leg around to kick Alfred in the stomach with the sole of his shoe, sending him flying.

There had been really no words in his mind during the act and the mobile in his left hand dropped harmlessly to the ground as the Brit's right hand hastily moved to try to scrub the feel of those bigger, more athletic fingers from his left arm once they'd been removed. A soft groan reached Arthur through this, and he glanced up, brows creasing at how Alfred was doubled over—oh. Oh, shit. He'd forgotten he was wearing cleats! Riddled with guilt he sprang up, rushing to the other man and kneeling beside him, placing a hand on the back of the white T-shirt over his friend's form.

"I-I—Are you all right? I—_crap,_ you aren't bleeding, are you?" Leaning over in earnest, he wriggled a concerned hand under the boy's tightly clenched arms over his shirt, gently feeling around his abdomen for any fluid. He dismissed the gasp in his ear and the jerk at his touch, attributing it to pain and sighed in relief, shoulders sagging as he felt no telltale stickiness on the cloth beneath his fingers. Arthur shook his head, unaware of a startled azure gaze on him until he attempted an unnatural-feeling apologetic smile towards the yank as he withdrew his hand and sat back on his heels. The light-haired brunet just watched him, expression unreadable but close to astonishment, and he began to prattle a bit needlessly, rendered self conscious as he reflected on both his unthinkingly violent and accidentally forward actions.

"I-I'm sorry, I thought you were—" He faltered, fidgeting with the hem of his red jersey as the boy only blinked at him. Eventually the Brit broke the silence again, standing hurriedly and brushing off his knees, not looking at the eyes yet locked on him.

"W-Well! If you're fine, then I'll just be—" A hand grabbed his covered wrist, and he blushed again, forcing himself to meet the other's gaze. …Oh. Alfred was smiling, although it did look a little strained. Perhaps due to the new bruise on his abdomen? He felt his cheeks grow yet warmer in mounting guilt.

"Hey, hey, Arthur. It's fine. I guess I deserved it, huh~?" A warm set of chuckles floated to the air at that, and the American tugged on his arm as though to yank him down. He resisted, of course, huffing and trying to pull himself to a straighter standing position. Invisibly, he sighed in relief at there being no serious injury, easily slipping back into a more comfortable reaction.

"You most certainly did! Honestly, you should learn to respect others' personal space!" He shot, and almost toppled as the taller American pulled himself to his feet—partially pulling on Arthur, for that! He managed to steady them both and only overbalance for a moment, instead settling for glaring at the yank as Alfred stood, smiling sheepishly. The freshman looked down at his stomach, palming the now-dirt-smeared fabric and rubbing it with the hand not currently keeping the blond from sprinting away.

Oh, right—that divvy tosser was still holding his wrist. Best ignore that! He coughed, angling his scarlet face away and trying to move his arm subtly so that Alfred would notice, and release him. To his great discomfiture, the American remained oblivious.

"So! Yeah, Arthur, I'm sorry. It's just I've never seen that kind of design before, and—" He felt like the brunet was trying to see his face, and it glowed only brighter as he angled it further away, trying again to tug futilely out of the sturdy grip, babbling absently.

"I-if you like it that much I'd just give it to you…" He muttered, deciding it would be more polite to try and meet the taller student's eyes, even if he was almost dying due to the indignity of his current predicament. His lips quivered upward in a shaky smile as the underclassman frowned, rubbing the back of his head. Arthur plunged his now-freed hand into its counterpart, shoulders still trembling a little.

"What? Nah, it's yours and I wouldn't want to…" That idiot trailed off almost absently, and he watched as sharp eyes fell from his humiliated face to the sight of his right hand gripping his left. He felt both exposed and chagrined, suddenly. His face and body language were being so blatant about his discomfort, and there was a serious danger that the American might now be suspicious. Swiftly, Arthur feigned that the action had only been to rip off his right wristband, and he flung it at the boy with a sudden yell and perhaps unnecessary vehemence.

"Just _take_ it!" The wanker yelped, barely ducking to the side in time to avoid the soft missile meant to connect with his forehead.

"Wah! Jeeez, man…" But the blond had already whipped around, stomping back over to his bag and stuffing his mobile and the fallen towel into it, feeling the heat on his face reach nearly all the way up to his ears. There was an odd little sense of warmth in his stomach for positively _no_ confirmable reason, and this he shoved to a dark, moldy corner of his mind, firmly keeping his face away from the yank behind him and jerking his bag onto his shoulder. He hastily beat a retreat, trying in vain to sprint up the hill without being too obvious about his desire to leave as quickly as possible. He heard a few garbled, hasty sounds behind him but refused to turn around, ignoring the slight reverberations in the ground as the younger man tried to scramble up the hill behind him and catch up.

With each step, Arthur's mortification quickly stewed into affronted anger. How _dare_ he! It's not as though he was—oh, wait. The Brit felt more heat creep into his cheeks as he amended the rest of that statement. Well! It's not as though he'd be _interested_ in a vulgar moron like that, despite the fact he wasn't bad looking—but he had _standards_! For another man to touch him so presumptuously like that was completely inexcusable! He didn't even know him all that well! Alfred's voice began to echo back into his ears as he placed one foot on even ground, his inner tirade ending.

"W-Wait, Artie! Today—I mean, if you'd want to, we could go get something to—" Firmly established at the top of the hill he whirled around, bag thumping against his shoulder as he fixed a dangerous glower on the American boy whose head was just about level with his shins. Alfred stopped dead, looking up at him from beneath his fringe in surprise at the degree of annoyance pulsing through those emerald eyes. Arthur snapped, fury (for that's what it was, most certainly) spilling over.

"No, I _don't_ want to! I _never_ do! You ask me this _every time_, and the answer's always no! I _don't_ _need _your foolish pity!" Arthur jabbed a finger down towards him and felt some inner sense of satisfaction at seeing an uncomfortable look pass over the yank's face as he did. "I'm doing well fine on my own and can't be arsed to deal with your stupid, insatiable need to show up wherever you're unwanted! Leave me alone!" With that, he whipped around, stomping off with steam practically erupting from his ears, his crimson face still blazing in vexation.

: : :

Standing in wide-eyed amazement as the enraged Englishmen trod off—Alfred blinked, then scratched his head, looking off towards the grass of the field in front of him with a little abashed smile.

"I guess… I bother him too much... ?" Considering he only saw the guy once a week, too! Well… maybe twice. It could be good in some way (did that mean Arthur remembered him?), he guessed, but… His shoulders sagged, and he shook his head, running his hand through his short hair as another thought registered. He inhaled, quick, in realization—then breathed a slower sigh, a word riding it.

"Shit… I didn't know he thought I pitied him, I just—" He hadn't meant to_ offend_ Arthur. There'd been something bothering the Brit, yesterday, and he'd thought that maybe a little rough-housing today might make him feel better. …Or something. That upperclassman was normally just so grumpy, but really interesting and… he'd meant what he said, back then. The guy _was_ cute when his face was all red. At his thoughts the American shook his head, slipping off his glasses. He rubbed the hand previously in his hair over his face with a stifled snort—of amusement, that's what it was. Nothing else. His shoulders shook a little as his hand paused over his eyes, words coming out in a low mumble.

"Maybe I should… leave him alone for a little while." Taking his hand away and blinking his eyes rapidly, he cast a glance back towards the tree where—he blinked, and this one wasn't to clear his vision. Oh! The teen quickly replaced his glasses, scanning the ground—then scuffled back down the hill, keeping the little splotch of red he'd just spotted in sight. He squinted, before heading for the bottom of the tree, squatting down and picking up the little thing.

Alfred let out a sharp laugh. It _was _Arthur's wristband. That damned red wristband with the white, embroidered English Lion on the front—the same one that had gotten the guy so annoyed, in the end. He smiled at it, almost wistfully, rubbing a thumb over the soft cloth as he had earlier. Well… he guessed he could leave Arthur alone. For… well, two weeks wouldn't be too long, right? After all, he didn't even know him, and—he slipped the band onto his left wrist, turning it so the lion was on the inside, over his pulse. He smiled at it, almost absently. It was so… so uniquely _British_, and if there was one thing Arthur was—it was that, at least.

: : :

The next Friday, it wasn't until the end of his shift as he was locking up that Arthur realized Alfred hadn't shown up, this time. He paused as he was taking the key out of its slot, testing the metal blinds absently to be sure they were sturdy. The Brit glanced behind him at the common room, brows wrinkling as he scanned the vicinity for the loudmouth American. No… he was nowhere in sight. Frowning softly, the Brit shook his head, chastising himself as he went around to the door to retrieve his things. He stepped inside, and had a thought. Perhaps he'd come earlier? Closing the door behind him, the blond flicked the light back on and strode down the rows of mailboxes to check.

_Five-fourteen, five-fourteen… _

_Ah._

His brows wrinkled further together in consternation. All of Alfred's mail was still there. With the semester in full swing, five weeks in, the new student mail had diminished considerably. He reached out a hand, almost plucking the—he noticed his fingers and hastily withdrew them, turning promptly and marching back towards the door, cheeks coloring slightly. What, really, was that? There was no way he could get up to Alfred's room to deliver the mail without being signed in, and if the lad hadn't shown up he was either sick, or… avoiding him. N-Not that he'd been thinking to deliver it! But… perhaps something had happened? Arthur felt a small stab of guilt.

He'd convinced himself it was Alfred's fault—which it was, really!—and he had every right to be angry. He had firmly told himself he hadn't wanted that stupid git to show up at his Friday mailroom shift. He didn't want to see that vain, tall yank again, he'd told him as much, and… W-Well, maybe it was a little nice that someone actually noticed him, for once, but… He _didn't_ want to see him again! No! Every time he did he ended up getting angry! Alfred was an annoying, utterly divvy _tosser_ and he shouldn't spare a second thought for his absence! The self-centered American had no doubt gone to some social affair and had forgotten the time! …Yes, that was probable.

Jealousy boiled up within him, along with anger at being shifted for some random party—n-not that he cared! He was only jealous because he was lonel—er, because Alfred was some shallow social butterfly, no doubt! A party-boy, pretty and just as likely popular… Puffing up like an offended rooster, the blond wrenched on his coat, cursing the underclassman's name under his breath. His knapsack's two straps firmly over his shoulders, he stormed out the door at a fast pace, an irate glower casting shadows over his face and causing people to skirt around him. He burst through the entryway doors, steps pissed off and purposeful on the sidewalk outside as he made his way to the library on lower campus to do his usual studying.

: : :

The next day, Arthur stood at the top of the hill at the customary time (although perhaps a bit earlier), satchel slung over his training jacket as he stared down at the vacant field. There was absolutely no one there. His fingers tightened over the drawstring between them as his shoulders slumped, imperceptibly. They stiffened not a moment later, though, and he stubbornly tromped down the hill, digging out his football and tossing his bag to the side, not caring about the delicate mobile being jostled within. He threw himself into the game, furiously kicking and dribbling, or running to catch up. Most of the time, he just ended up kicking the ball too hard and had to run clear across the field to retrieve it. Every time he turned to repeat the pointless exercise, he noted the absence of another presence at the base of that tree. It wasn't until after a while that he realized he was just tiring himself out for the sake of it. His shoulders slumped, again.

Maybe… Alfred had decided he wasn't worth the time to hang around? Maybe… he'd just gotten frustrated, and forgotten about him? Frowning mightily, he socked that damn ball again. This time, though… he didn't immediately go after it. The blond just stood there, staring at the football as it bounced off a tree and slowly rolled to a stop by his bag, across the field. He shook his head after a moment, slowly beginning to walk forward. It took a little while because he didn't run, but when he reached the ball—he ignored it, heading for his satchel instead and rummaging around for a little while before he found his mobile. Staring at it bleakly… he opened up his Missed Calls folder, not surprised when there were, again, no recent ones. Scrolling down, he found a few still stored from that last full week in September, when Alfred had called him a couple of times.

He watched the number there for so long that he had to periodically move to press the center button in order to relight the screen as well as prevent it from automatically locking. The Brit screwed up his face, at last, firmly thumbing the small green button on the left side of his keypad, and held the device to his ear. He distantly noted his palms were sweaty, and listened to the ringing on the other side. He wasn't quite sure if he desperately wanted the yank to miss the call, or hear Alfred answer, but—

"_Hey! You've reached Alfred, I can't—"_

Click.

He clenched the little mobile in his hand after hanging up, letting his arm drop to his side as his entire frame deflated, again. Well, maybe now he could admit it. Even if the chap hadn't answered, his actions just a moment ago wouldn't allow for any self-deception. The lack of an endless fountain of obnoxiously cheery smiles, newly-irritating voicemail messages and forced company at the end of every week was starting to wear on him.

He apparently missed that damn wanker.

: : :

He hadn't tried to call, again. Alfred's mobile would register his number, anyway, so why bother? The bloke already knew he'd caved. He wouldn't admit it, but he was a little nervous and paying more attention during his shift, today. It was Friday, again. Almost two weeks since that little incident at the field. Somehow, he couldn't find himself to care, anymore. It was already over, right? The American knew he'd belled, and (while Arthur didn't allow himself to ponder that he'd just seen it and ignored it—surely, he simply hadn't checked his phone!) it was almost certain he'd spot the lad, today! The only reason he'd missed him last week was because he was too busy studying! Yes, that was it… and the brunet was obviously drowned in schoolwork, and had forgotten to pick up his mail! Yes! That's why he hadn't shown up, last week! The Brit nodded to himself, sitting alone (as usual) behind his desk. He glanced at his watch. It was already a little after one. He plastered on a pleasant smile, doing his best to appear cheery and even-tempered. Certainly, all he had to do was be on his best behavior! Then Alfred could see he wasn't all bad! He wasn't doing this to make the chap talk to him, again—certainly not! He was only turning over a new leaf! He was going to reign in his temper, not curse, and then—

The hummed tune in his throat died as he noticed someone tall, in jeans and a leather jacket, push through the first of the entryway doors. He cast a quick glance around, noting that the common room was rather full, and blushed. The second set of entry doors opened, and he swallowed. The brunet wasn't looking up, instead thumbing something away with alarming dexterity on the full keyboard of his phone. His throat closed up, unable to do anything but watch helplessly as the distracted man walked on without even looking up. Soon he'd be at the security desk, and—

Oh! Hastily pulling out his mobile, he fumbled a little with the menus and buttons before finding the correct ones, and soon held it to his ear, heart thumping loudly and eyes trained on the American across the room. A few seconds passed, and then the brunet's brow furrowed, and his thumbs paused.

_Please don't ignore it because it's me, please don't ignore it because it's me…_

_ "Arthur?" _The blond made an interesting sound of surprise before gathering himself, injecting a disturbing amount of cheer into his tone as he snapped his gaze from the man on the other side of the common area, too embarrassed to watch now that they were talking. He was proud he didn't stutter—too much, anyway.

"H-Hello, Alfred! I was just calling to—"

_"What the hell, man. Who calls without leaving a message?" _His mouth went dry at the apathetic tone.

"O-Oh, no, about that, I—"

_"Psh. You what? You're sorry? Nah, you're not sorry. Why'd you call, huh? I thought you wanted to be left alone. Said so yourself." _Something in his chest was sinking. This _wasn't _how the conversation was supposed to go!

"I-I—"

_"What's that? I can't hear you over the sound of my not caring." _To that nonchalant voice, his blood boiled, and he ended up shouting into the small mobile pressed against his ear.

"You bloody _div!_ To think, I—Y-You haven't picked up your mail!" He diverted himself at the last moment, blurting the first non-offensive thing that came to mind. There was a pause on the other end.

_"…What?" _The Brit hurried on, almost desperate to keep talking now that he wasn't being interrupted every five seconds.

"Y-Your mail! You didn't come last week, and there was quite a bit in then, and if you didn't come in this week they might start forwarding it to your parents' house and that would require quite a lot of paperwork on my part! It's less trouble if you come, now! And if there was an important letter from the uni you missed—well it _is_ Friday and we're closed tomorrow and Sunday and there might be a package in for you and—"

"You sure ramble a lot when you're nervous." A voice above his head observed, wisely.

He nearly had a heart attack.

: : :

"Arthur?"There was an interesting, garbled stutter on the other end. Alfred raised a brow. It wasn't like him to be so—

_"H-Hello, Alfred! I was just calling to—"_ He pegged that tone, easily. Forced cheerfulness. The guy was nervous. Even so—he was still hurt over the yelling. He hadn't done anything _that bad_ to deserve it, and so allowed his annoyance to be heard.

"What the hell, man. Who calls without leaving a message?"

_"O-Oh, no, about that, I—"_ He bluntly continued, not caring, hurt, and pouting. Those particular feelings had been festering for the past couple of weeks. He'd thought that Arthur would've missed him, at least a little, but he hadn't even called except for last Saturday! What did the guy think, he'd show up after purposefully avoiding him the day before? Jesus Christ, what'd he expect? Art had_ asked—_no, more like_ demanded—_to be left alone, after all!

"Psh. You what? You're sorry? Nah, you're not sorry. Why'd you call, huh? I thought you wanted to be left alone. Said so yourself." He glanced over at the mailroom desk halfway through his comment, noting lightly that the Brit was too distracted with the conversation to notice his gaze. For the first time in weeks, he was seeing that guy. He was seeing Arthur and Arthur looked—upset?

_ "I-I—"_

"What's that? I can't hear you over the sound of my not caring."He muttered the phrase out as an absent barb, an obvious attempt to incite the Brit to rage—just to see where it'd go. In truth, Alfred was more concerned with heading over as inconspicuously as he could, stealthily approaching the desk while he casually pretended to do something else.

_"You bloody div! To think, I—Y-You haven't picked up your mail!"_ That last line almost made him laugh at the clear censoring, although he was a bit worried that Arthur wasn't insulting him endlessly as he usually did. His mouth tried to twitch into a smile, but he fought it just barely (the guy would hear it in his tone, for sure!) by answering in a low voice he hoped sounded burly and intimidating.

"…What?"He stepped a bit closer to, but not quite in front of, the mailroom booth and counter embedded in the wall. He was out of Arthur's vision, off to the side. That smile again tugged at his lips as he noted the red, flustered look as the Brit started gesturing spastically with his free hand to no one who (he thought) could see. It was a little… adorable. In a weird sort of way.

_ "Y-Your mail! You didn't come last week, and there was quite a bit in then, and if you didn't come in this week they might start forwarding it to your parents' house and that would require quite a lot of paperwork on my part! It's less trouble if you come, now! If there was an important letter from the uni you missed—well it __**is**__ Friday and we're closed tomorrow and Sunday and there might be a package in for you and—"_ Hearing the accented babbling in stereo made him want to snigger. He resisted, though. Alfred kept the line on, but pulled the device away from his ear and put his other hand to his chin, framing it in a thoughtful pose.

He stepped in front of the counter and feigned studious scrutiny, tone wise.

"You sure ramble a lot when you're nervous."

: : :

"Cor _blimey,_ Alfred! D-Don't _do_ that… !" The Brit sucked in a shocked breath, a hand clutching his mobile over his racing chest, wide eyes focusing up on the blue-eyed American standing before him. The chap's mouth was curled into a satisfied grin. His eyes flicked to the boy's mobile as he brought it up, and Arthur could only stare at it, not comprehending its peculiar angle until he heard a mechanized clicking sound. If possible, his gaze grew whiter, and his jaw dropped open, his hand falling swiftly from his chest and placing his own mobile aside as he rose, shoulders shuddering in horror and building irritation.

"Y-You did _not_ just…" The American gave him an impish grin, pressing a few more buttons on the keypad before sticking the device safely back in his pocket with a pat, beaming.

"Well, you call so much I've gotta have a good Caller ID photo for you, ya know~?"

"Argh! _Idiot!_" He lunged at the yank with no concern for his surroundings, hands aiming for his neck but ending up on the collar of his jacket. It was just as well. They crashed to the floor, and he proceeded to shake the living daylights out of the sordid tosser pinned beneath him, yelling at the top of his lungs, eyes white and struck through to the core with rage.

"You will _give_ me that phone, and I will _delete _that photo before you or anyone else—" He paused, noticing something odd. The brunet was beneath him, shaking—but not in fear. He was sniggering uncontrollably, a hand over his mouth as though to deter louder guffaws. Momentarily befuddled, his brows crinkled as his hands ceased their violent movements, although his fingers remained curled around the leather they held.

"Haha, Artie! Too bad~! I already sent a copy to Gil, just in case!" That unendurable yank was leering at him, again, and he scowled in response, opening his mouth to raise his voice once more. A fingertip on his scarcely-parted lips stopped him, and not a moment after he realized it his cheeks inflamed themselves without his permission, rendering him effectively hushed.

"Ah, ah!" The American waved his other pointer finger in the shorter man's face, that mocking smirk growing to resemble something closer to a beaming smile. Lord, it even reached his eyes! Arthur was just marveling over that when the bloke's voice continued, abhorrently pleased with itself and yet still managing to ooze with fake adoration.

"I know you missed me, _honey_, so can we skip the pleasantries and get straight to kissing~?" Then the freshman puckered his lips and leaned up.

He was off him faster than a new model off a normal diet. Of course, his face had only bloomed yet more scarlet at the insinuation, and he stammered uselessly before stomping off in a hurry, jerking open the door to the mailroom—oops. He unlocked it with the key attached to one of his belt loops—_quite_ composedly, thank you very much!—_then_ jerked the door open and stomped angrily inside, slamming it behind him.

The mail clerk ignored the gleeful giggles sounding from the other side of the counter, paying no mind as the American pushed himself up from the floor only to proceed to laze all over the high desk. He positively overlooked the fact that he was being ogled by that divvy lad as he went about his work, instead rather professionally gathering all of the bloke's mail from the correct box with silent dignity. The blond strode back just as sedately, not looking up and skimming through the mail for any package slips. Ah, perhaps it was his lucky day. There were none.

Smiling benignly, green eyes not visible when half-mooned into such happy shapes as they were, he slammed that bloody tosser's head into the counter with the force of a thousand men (and his mail), the air behind him broiling with anger and darkness as he hissed down to the boy now whining and rubbing the bump on his head.

"If you show that to _anyone_ else, I swear by Her Majesty the _Queen_, I will—" Alfred waved a hand in his face, and he blinked upon spying a flash of red, surprised.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, you Brits and your Queen, I know, she's all—"

"What is that." Alfred's eyes blinked back at him in bewilderment.

"Huh?" Eyes narrowing slightly, the blond reached out a hand, grabbing the end of the lad's jacket sleeve and jerking the cuff up. Alfred wrenched his arm back, but the damage was done. Guarded jade followed the action, before rising to edgy blue eyes curiously enough.

"Why are you… wearing that?" He'd thought the yank had forgotten it, left it there—hell, _he'd _forgotten about it until he got back to the apartment and realized he was without his second wristband. He'd just flung it at the boy in an attempt to save face, not really thinking about it. Now, without warning, the American blushed and he found he had to stare. It was just slight, the barest tint of red over his well-defined cheekbones, but—

"I-I… well, you gave it to me, right?" One of the yank's hands rubbed the back of his head. Arthur noted that his gaze was firmly fixed on the ground, as well. Strange as it was, he found himself fighting a touched smile. After a moment or two, he also glanced to the side, mouth still feeling unnaturally soft.

"Ah… yes. I suppose so." There was a strangely warm flutter in the area of his heart—he was familiar with it, though, and after a moment quashed it back into nonexistence. There was silence between them, and so he took to going about doing various mailroom chores or studying. For once, Alfred was quiet, and he found he could tolerate his presence without being distracted. Sometimes they talked, although it was about shallow things: musical interests, or whatever else they could find a common ground on. The blond dealt with a few students coming to retrieve their packages, and for these his brown-haired friend politely stepped back from the counter, only to return when the other students left. It was at the end of his shift, just as he was locking the metal blinds, when Alfred spoke up.

"Um… so, Arthur…" He clicked the lock into place, then removing the key and glancing behind him, blinking slightly.

"Yes?" The toe of a sneaker scuffed on the tile beneath, and he fought a faintly amused smile at the childish action. It was good he did, too, because a moment later bright sapphire fell on him.

"Halloween's in a couple of weeks…" Ah. So that was what it was. He walked over to the mailroom door, unlocking it and stepping inside to retrieve his knapsack and coat, as always. The upperclassman dutifully locked the door behind him, before lifting his gaze back to his by-now fidgeting companion.

"Yes, it is. Your point?" The words lacked any real annoyance to them this time—mere patience lining them, instead—and he began to pull on his coat.

"Uh…" There was that wee bit of red over the brunet's cheeks, again, and the blond's lips did a weird little curve at one of their corners. He smothered that as soon as Alfred looked at him again, though, expression feigning uncomprehending innocence. The taller boy smiled, lopsided.

"Well. Uh. Luca, my suite mate, has this friend of his who practically runs the frat house next door. You know the one?" Arthur nodded, quiet. He did. He'd been working here for three years, after all. He tugged on either side of his jacket's collar with equal force, straightening the way it sat on his shoulders.

"Well, uh… they're hosting this Halloween party the weekend after next. Luca said he can get us in for free, so if you'd like to…"

The sentence hung in the air between them—but apparently Arthur's response took too long, because Alfred grew uncomfortable and started to wave one hand to try and persuade him to agree, voice earnest and gaze tense. Worried.

"But, uh—you don't have to come if you don't want to! I mean, it starts at seven on Saturday night so you wouldn't miss any classes, and it's a costume party and 'cause it's the frat house there'll be beer but you don't have to drink if you don't want to and—" Gentle fingers paused the rambling, the Brit's hand raised for silence in front of him as he shook his head, gaze casting aside.

"No… No, that's fine." It wasn't really an answer, and Alfred licked his lips uneasily, seeking confirmation.

"So… are you coming, or—" There was silence for another moment. It was almost as though the blond was uncomfortable agreeing, but that couldn't be… right? He didn't receive a verbal confirmation, anyway—just a little blush on the Brit's face as he nodded. A little shakily, Alfred's lips curled into a ghost of his usual smile.

"O-Okay, cool. I guess I'll see you…" He made to turn, then, and took a few steps away before he heard a soft tone.

"…hey." He turned, a little surprised to see Arthur more concerned with doing up the buttons on his coat instead of looking at him. For a moment he thought he'd imagined the small voice, but then his friend leaned to pick up his bookbag, shouldering it and pinning him with a hesitant pair of green eyes. He waited, trying not to be impatient and only watching as the Brit glanced quietly towards the floor.

"I'll—see you tomorrow, then?" It was more of a question, despite the phrasing, and he felt a little warmth climb up into his chest and settle there as he beamed.

"Yeah, sure! See ya then, Artie!" As the American at last turned and strode away with a wave over his shoulder to the one behind him, he heard a muttered curse.

"Prat… that's not my _name_…"

Alfred grinned a little wider and his steps sprang a little higher, after that.

: : :

There wasn't much time in the following fortnight to be nervous over the coming party, however. This was crunch-time, the first great hurdle of the semester—it seemed all of his professors had decided to either have an exam or a paper due, so he was over-worked and over-stressed, sparing Alfred barely a glance when he showed up at his mailroom shift the next Friday. Perhaps he was a bit snappish, but they spent a little more time together the following Saturday with the American being his usual idiot self and nicking his football from him. Of course, he was forced to chase the prick around the field—but, perhaps it had been a slight bit enjoyable. It was a good way to release stress, although by the end of the next week he was buried in paperwork again, only passably registering the boy's presence when he showed up around one, again. The Brit'd informed him, quite briskly, that he had no foolish time for his shenanigans, needed this time to study if there were no students requiring help with their mail and bent back over his philosophy readings, taking painstaking notes in order to remember the finer points and wrangle a good mark.

He spent the latter part of that Friday night pouring over his cheap, second-hand laptop, typing furiously to belt out the required six pages for his philosophy assignment. He'd answered his creative writing prompt some hours earlier, and it was all set to be turned in at class on Tuesday, only needing to be printed out at one of the computer labs on campus. The psychology exam scheduled for Monday he'd been studying for every day, now, and figured he was quite well-prepared. Thank god the chemistry exam wasn't until Wednesday! Math really wasn't his strongest subject, but it was an introductory course and really not all that hard. Part of what they covered he recalled from his secondary school's chemistry class, even, and that was only a little over four years ago! The Brit muttered a quick thanks to whatever had decreed that his linguistics paper not be due until the Tuesday of the week after. It seemed everything else was due the first week of November!

Now, then, this paper. Writing really wasn't hard for him, but time _did_ have to be set aside and all of the points _did _have to be stated. Other than that, philosophy only required an articulate mind and a good tongue for argument, and he certainly wasn't lacking in either. Hours later, finished at last and utterly exhausted, he glanced at the clock and groaned. How in good Heaven's name did it get to be so late? Arthur pushed his reading glasses up onto his forehead, rubbing a hand over his face with a sigh. Glancing out the window in his small room, he could note the faintest pink tinge over the sky. Yes, _far_ too late. He let the spectacles drop down, again, blearily attached the file to an e-mail and sent it to himself. He could print it out on Monday at a computer lab on campus, and hand it in to class on Thursday night. The blond mentally patted himself on the back, congratulating himself that he'd actually got it done ahead of schedule, and decided now was the best time for some well-deserved sleep. It was Saturday, after all. He could afford to sleep in. And with the sky growing ever lighter, that might be the healthiest option. He'd been losing a lot of sleep this week, too. Arthur opted for a quick shower, just to get the sweat and grime of the day off, before brushing his teeth, pulling on his pajamas and crawling to bed. He glanced at the clock, groaning again at the time—_it was after eight-blooming-thirty!—_before just collapsing onto the soft mattress, head buried face-down into the pillow. The poor student was snoring within moments.

: : :

"_Well some things you can expla-ain away! But the heartache's in me 'til this da-ay-ay! Did you stand by me? No, not at all. Did you stand by me? No way—" _**[1]**

The generic ringtone on his mobile woke him and the now-half-asleep Brit groaned unhappily, not opening his eyes and blindly whipping his hand out to feel around the table next to his bed in search of the suddenly-loud device.

"_All the ti-imes. That we were close. I'll remember. These things the most. I see all my dreams come tumbling do—" _**[1]**

"Graargh. ''oo tha bloody 'ell izzis… ?" He growled none-too-pleasantly into the speaker, eyes still closed as he propped his head against the pillow and fervently wished that the person on the other line would die a slow, painful death. There was a pause. Was that stifled laughter?

_"H-Hey, Artie! Happy Halloween~! Jeez, you aren't still sleeping are you? It's after six! I didn't see you today, so I just thought I'd call. You're still coming to the party tonight, right?"_

The bottom of his stomach dropped out as his eyes flew open. Oh bollocks. The party. With classes and due dates and papers and tests hounding his life for the past fortnight—oh, _hell_! No wonder it'd slipped his mind! The Brit was wide awake by the time the last of Alfred's words sank in and cursed loudly, flinging the covers off and going straight for his dresser, rifling through it one-handed.

"_Blast_ it!"

"_Eh? Artie?"_ His mind raced. Didn't Alfred say it was a costume party?

"Shit, shit…" He muttered it, snapping irritably into the phone. "It's near your dorm, yes? Yes, I'll be there!" He hung up, flinging the mobile back on his bed before continuing to rifle through his clothes, hurriedly. He didn't have time to worry about a costume. At this rate, he'd be late! He recalled it started at seven… Oh, he'd be miserable and he'd stand out like a sore thumb—but, no! He'd promised Alfred he'd go, and it's not as though… His cheeks pinked. He hadn't had time for much relaxing in the past two weeks, and he did miss— He coughed, drawing out some vaguely festive attire—well, color-wise, at any rate. He didn't have many clothes besides his usual day-to-day ones, and at the moment he was sorely regretting having nothing less formal.

Minutes later, hastily combing a hand through his mussed bed hair and buttoning the top of his beige slacks with the other, he knocked on Ren's door. Hearing a sound of confirmation he burst inside, flapping his arms a bit.

"Ren! You've got to help me! I need a costume for a party in half an hour!" The Japanese boy blinked at him, canting his head to the side and running his eyes down the other's clothes. A dark green sweater vest over a pale orange button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. No tie, at least. The Asian lad, too polite to laugh, turned back to his computer screen without further pretense.

"Let us see what the Internet says, Arthur-san."

: : :

_6:58 PM_

Arthur blew in the doors of the common room, checking his watch as he did so and heaving a sigh of relief. Out of breath from sprinting through the campus to get to the dorm (he cursed the hills here!) he staggered over to a lounge chair and tumbled into it gratefully. None too soon, his mobile buzzed in his pocket. Naturally, he'd put it back on vibrate as soon as he left the apartment. No need for everyone in the world to hear his ringtone, after all. It was a bit rude, in his opinion, to subject complete strangers to random bursts of song whenever someone called you. Still slightly winded, he fished it out and put it to his ear.

"H-Hello?"

_"Hey, Artie! We're heading out about now. Where are you?"_ Still a little out of it, he nodded.

"R-Right, then. I'm here. Common room."

_"Oh, cool! Can't wait to see your costume! See ya soon, then!"_ He nodded again, hanging up as soon as he heard a dial tone, and flopped further into the lounge chair, resting the back of his head against the low back and staring at the ceiling miserably. His 'costume' was absolutely horrible. But, last minute, it was all he could do.

He hoped Alfred wasn't too disappointed.

: : :

He was so excited~! Arthur'd showed up! He'd been a little worried when it seemed he'd woken the guy up… but then again, the Brit'd been under a lot of pressure, lately. It was pretty obvious. He'd even missed showing up at the soccer field, today! The American shook his head to himself, flanked on either side by Luca and Gilbert, both in their best costumes. The stupid over-achiever must've stayed up all night finishing a paper, or something… A slight smile tugged at his face. He wished he had that kind of work ethic, sometimes.

"What, daydreamin' 'bout your boyfriend, Al~?" An arm slung around his shoulders and an annoying, harsh laugh in his ear made him shove at the guy, narrowing his eyes towards the albino dressed unrepentantly as a Schutzstaffel officer. The black military-style hat made his white hair all the more noticeable.

"Shut up, Gil! He's not my boyfriend!" His red-eyed room mate cackled, saluting mockingly. The costume really was a good one, insignias authentic and decorated in all the right parts. It was basically a white collared shirt with a black tie, a black military jacket over top of both, a black belt with a large square silver buckle and, of course, black pants tucked into super-shined jet-black boots.

"That's good, sir! Otherwise I'd have to gas you for being a homosexual!" Barking laughter echoed around them in the elevator as he tousled with the guy for that, trying to steal his hat.

"Oh, no no~! You should stop fighting, we're going to a party!" Luca's little hands patted at their arms, trying to placate them as he smiled childishly, eyes appearing perpetually closed. The slight-framed man was innocently cross-dressing as a beer fraulein, his auburn hair curled and waved and that one odd curl sticking out in front. The outfit was_ very_ feminine, a short ruffled green skirt with gold trim and a little white apron over his lap. There was even a brown corset, laced up with pink cords and the lacy, low-cut shirt's puffed sleeves slipped down a little over his shoulders—of course, the high stockings with matching pink bows at the tops made it a bit more girlish (as well as the high-heeled black Mary Janes). Gil had tried to tease him about it, but failed utterly when he'd said Luca 'looked like a girl'. The Italian had considerably brightened, flailing at him in happiness.

_ "T-Then you think Hartmut will think so, too? I heard he's wearing German lederhosen and I wanted to match… Ve, ve~! We'll be just like a couple~~!"_

The American just shook his head at the memory, tugging on his leather vest a bit. He glanced down, shifting his legs a bit. The matching dark brown leather chaps with fringe at the seam lines on the outsides of his legs fit snugly over his jeans, the ends of brown cowboy boots peeking out from beneath the cuffs at the bottom. Two belts were wrapped around his waist, one really just the top of the chaps that kept them together. The other was also attached, but thin, and buckled around his abdomen. He had a blue pinstriped button-up shirt tucked into the tops of his jeans, but only really the sleeves and his stomach were visible beneath the vest. He had his sleeves tightly rolled up just past his elbows, a red bandana tied around his neck, and the predictable cowboy hat perched atop his head back at an angle so as to not push his bangs into his face. The cord hung loosely under his chin, ready to save the hat from being lost should it topple from its precarious position. It wasn't too much different than the costume he'd worn a few years ago, really. Then again, he'd been a cowboy for Halloween for easily half his life! He grinned to himself, puffing out his chest and proud of that little fact.

The elevator doors dinged in front of them and he strode out, his suite mates flanking him. Gil in his Nazi uniform was on his right, Luca the 'Bier Fraulein' on his left. As they approached the security desk (since they were going out, they didn't need to show ID) he started to search through the glass, scanning the common room for the Brit extra-carefully, as he might not be easily recognizable…

There weren't really a lot of people in the room, and none of them looked too ready to go to a Halloween party. There was one guy off in the corner who looked like the stress of midterms was getting to him, though. Frowning, he turned to the two behind him.

"Maybe he went to the bathroom, or something. You guys go on ahead, I'll be right there." They nodded, Luca fluttering away and Gil pausing to give him a knowing smirk (_what?_) before they disappeared out the entryway doors. Out of habit, he walked over to the closed mailroom desk, leaning back against the wall beside it and sticking his hands in his pockets. He glanced at the bathroom only a little ways away and settled in to wait.

It was after a few minutes that he frowned, and pulled out his cell, dialing the Brit's number.

_"Hello?"_

"Hey, Art. Where are you? I've been waiting here for the past few minutes, and—" Out of the corner of his vision, he saw someone jerk up from a lounge chair. He turned his head, blinking as the guy's frantically searching eyes—_green, _aha!—settled on him. Despite his slight impatience with having waited for no reason, Alfred smiled, hanging up, sticking his cell in his pocket and raising a hand to wave as he walked over.

"Hey, Artie! I thought—" He stopped, blinking. Arthur looked the same as he always did, nothing special. Well, he _did_ sort of look like fall (or the reverse of a pumpkin), what with that dark green sweater vest and pale orange button-up shirt and the beige slacks, but the only thing that was really different was the sign hung around his neck that fell to his chest. The words "_Nudist on strike_" looked like they'd been scribbled in a hurry, the card really just a piece of cardboard with holes punched in it for the yarn holding it on.

: : :

He glued his eyes to the tiled floor in shame, wanting to sink into it and disappear, feeling only more awkward at seeing how elaborate the American's costume was. Miserably, he started to babble, feeling his face already going red from the disgrace of it all.

"I-I'm sorry I don't have a better costume, b-but with exams and work I—"

"You forgot." His heart twisted in guilt, and, unable to form the words, he just nodded, looking further away on the ground.

"I-I'm sor—" He was suddenly engulfed in a big hug, coughing in surprise as his eyes widened and he was squeezed.

"Hey, Art. Stop apologizing. It's okay, yeah?" The yank pulled back, smiling warmly at him. "What matters is you came!" Flushing again, he nodded, looking down. Then suddenly he barked out a response, turning and stomping out towards the doors, blatantly ignoring his flaming cheeks.

"W-Well come on, then! We're already late, I'd hate to think—"

Happy laughter met his ears as the light-haired brunet trotted after him.

_7:06 PM_

The short, very grumpy-looking dark-haired boy (dressed as a mafia hit man from the 1930s, fake Tommy gun propped over his shoulder) at the door with a list eyed their costumes for a moment. He waved Alfred in, but as Arthur went to follow he put a hand on his shoulder. Blinking, surprised, the blond glanced back at the man's scowling face.

"That costume's crap. You can't come in like that." Sputtering, and only vaguely aware of the fact Alfred had stopped in front of the door to wait for him and was observing this, he spat a reasonable excuse.

"W-Well, I'm _sorry_ I was more focused on my studies than—" The Italian waved a hand, making a gesture in the air, and soon two sets of hands grabbed the Brit's upper arms, lifting him off his feet. He squawked, trying to struggle free.

"U-Unhand me, you hooligans!" The doorman just smirked.

"Nah. We're going to have to give you a little… _help_." Gazing evilly at Arthur he motioned with his pen, dismissively. "Take this guy upstairs. You know which room, right? He'll be happy to have a vic—client." The blond's eyes widened in uncertainty at his fate. Sneering softly, the door guard wriggled his fingers in a mock wave as the now shouting, cursing blond was toted away by his frat brothers (wearing identical American army camo uniforms). Well, he _was_ sneering—until a hand thumped down on his shoulder. He reflexively bristled, throwing a glare over his shoulder.

"What the fuck is y—!"

"Where are you taking him." Blue eyes were narrowed at him from beneath a very intimidating cowboy hat, and Marco felt a small jolt of fear before playing it off with a bluff, brushing the guy's hand off his shoulder uncaringly and going back to his list, checking off their names on the VIP list he held. Anyone who wasn't on that list paid to get in, after all. The fraternity had to make money for the fundraiser _somehow._

"Calm down. We're just going to let him borrow a costume for the party so he's 'properly attired' and all that shit. He'll be back in a few."

_7:18 PM_

Two of his suitemates shuddered next to him, as they stood by the snack table. The stoic, broad-shouldered man quietly took in their matching costumes from the corner of his eye, still slightly miffed that Nikolai had chosen their costumes specifically _after _he'd learned of his own. They were the three little pigs (denoted only by the pig ears on their heads, the small curly tails at their backsides, and the snouts pinned over their noses). The one holding a handful of straw in his hand (which incidentally matched his hair) was small and easily the shortest, quivering next to the glasses-wearing and stick-bearing one who was nodding in agreement with something Nikolai said in his deceptively sweet voice. The Russian was tossing a brick cheerfully back and forth in his hands. He himself was actually a few centimeters taller than his white-haired suitemate (the black ears added a bit of height, as well), and not at all intimidated by Nikolai's implied threats. The taller man was simply a little annoyed that the man had decided to introduce him as—

"Ah, hello~! Can you see what we are? The three little pigs and the Big Bad Wolf!"

"'m n't_ th't_ w'lf…" He muttered, eyes casting around the room in hope of an escape. He'd decided only to stay with poor Raivis and Eduard until something else found his interest. He had no intention of getting roped into Nikolai's manipulative scheming and would _not_ allow his pity for the two younger boys to land him in the Russian's clutches. His eyes fell on a pair of newcomers by the door. One was in a (red and black flannel shirt, denim jeans, hiking boots, brown suspenders and a brown, fur-lined trapper hat) lumberjack costume. He almost smiled (but didn't, quite) at the stuffed polar bear clutched to the boy's side in lieu of an axe. The short blond boy beside him, however…

The stoic man's eyes widened. It couldn't be. No, what were the odds of someone in America actually knowing that old cartoon? But that particular blue hat, and the tawny brown bear ears, as well as the paws on the boy's hands and poking out from those matching, oversized blue overalls— He was striding slowly over before he knew it, only vaguely hearing Raivis' wailing calls for him not to leave as well as Nikolai's curious (and almost slightly angry) voice.

"B-Berwaaald! Nooo, don't leave us—"

"Eh? Where are you going~?"

: : :

"I-I don't know what to do here, eh?" The flustered boy flailed a little, the long flyaway curl bobbing in front of his face as bright violet eyes stayed on him, nervous and unsure. The light-haired brunet's voice was scarcely above a whisper, as though he were straining not to be too loud. "I-I've never been to a… a party like this…" His blond room mate smiled cheerily at him, patting his back warmly.

"Aw, Mattie, it'll be fine~! See, there's lots of nice people here, and games—" A shadow fell over them, and he glanced up as Matthew squeaked softly and raised his stuffed bear over his face, trembling and attempting to hide. The person was approaching them was quite tall, and looked… rather fearsome. Well, firstly part of that had to do with his costume, no doubt! He was dressed all in black clothing, a long wolf snout propped over his real nose and triangular black ears atop his head. A matching wolf tail swished out behind him as he walked, stopping right before them. His face was a little stony, though, and he seemed to be glaring through his glasses—the much shorter blond straightened, staring up at the other boy bravely but otherwise greeting him happily enough and not showing at all that he was a little scared.

"Hello! Who are you?" Turquoise eyes stared down at him, and he had to fight the urge to cling to Matthew and whimper, as well. But he didn't, darn it! He met that stare, the smile on his face firm and friendly. After a short pause, a black-pawed hand rose, gesturing softly at the weird, slightly-floppy bright blue hat on his head between the pair of round, brown bear ears.

"'re y''… B'mse?" The short blond blinked, tipping his head to the side. Was that a blush on that scary face?

"Er—What? 'Bumse'? ...Oh!" His eyes widened, and he gasped in pleasant surprise, clapping a brown paw to his mouth. "O-Oh! _Bamse!_ You recognize me?" He flushed as the taller blond nodded solemnly and beamed in utter delight. It diminished a little bit as that black wolf paw gestured back to the stoic guy and he leaned forward inquisitively to hear better, those turquoise eyes still focused on his own bluer ones.

"'m V'rg'n." Taking a moment to process the implied vowels in that mumble, his eyes widened again and he flailed a little in excitement.

"O-O-Oh! Are you _Vargen?_" Another nod and he laughed, cheerfully hooking his elbow through one of the wolf's', casting his bright smile back towards his room mate. "Hey, Mattie! This guy—" Oh. He blinked, looking around. His lumberjack-room mate was nowhere in sight. He shook his head, then looked back up towards the taller boy beside him with another happy grin.

"Well, we'll run into him later! Hi there! What's your name? I'm Tino~!" He knew that guy wasn't so bad when those turquoise eyes almost-smiled down to him and he was very carefully guided along through the crowd of people. The elbow linked through his own was rather hard and powerful, but oh-so-very gentle and cautious of hurting him. Again, was that a blush as the taller man looked away?

"…'m B'rw'ld."

_7:38 PM_

"Ahhh, ah, I can't believe Berwald left us! And it's my birthday, too…" Nikolai pouted, mumbling softly into his scarf before glancing down to his side at the other little pigs. His smile was bright and pure. They quaked, for some reason. "Ne, I'm glad you guys want to stay with me~!" He walked over behind them, placing a hand on either of their shoulders (the one holding the brick on Raivis') and announcing their plans, cheerfully.

"Let's go greet that cowboy over there~! I don't believe we've met, yet~~"

: : :

Alfred was talking to Francis, shaking his head a bit. His RA was dressed in some medieval attire (puffy blue sleeves, pantaloons, silly plumed hat, the whole shebang) and going around with a 'delicate' silk rose that smelled vaguely of rose-scented perfume.

"I dunno, man. You just seem to… bring out the worst in him, or something. He's not that bad." The Frenchman waved a hand, casting a charming smile his way.

"Oh, _mon cher_, you don't need to explain that _rosbif _to me~! I very well know that—"

"Aha, Francis~!" That voice sounded far too delighted and he instantly stiffened, glancing over his shoulder. Just his luck. He stayed completely still, not daring to turn around just yet even if it felt dangerous having his back to the huge, violet-eyed student.

"_B-B-Bonjour,_ Nikolai~! Raivis, Eduard, are you enjoying the—" The Russian leaned down, interrupting him even though his face was pleasant. He somehow still managed to exude a horrifying miasma with that expression.

"I trust no more vodka is missing from my room, _da~_? That would be a horrible breach of both personal property and security and I wouldn't wish to have to report that—" The American blinked, staring at the nervous Frenchman in front of him.

"Hey, wait… Francis… you_ stole_ that vodka from this guy's room?" The RA jumped to his own defense, stirring to life and flinging himself behind Alfred's shoulder, pointing wildly at the innocently beaming Russian.

"_C-Confiscated!_ H-H-He's not supposed to have alcohol on campus property!"

"Oh, but Francis, we both know I am old enough to legally do so, _da?_" That sunny smile didn't waver and the light-haired brunet frowned, glancing over his shoulder at the anxiety-ridden RA.

"Really, Francis? That's pretty lame of you." The Frenchman shrieked and sped off. The American blinked, then scratched his head and glanced towards the trio with a light smile.

"Eh, sorry about that. So, who're you guys? Guess you're on my floor since you know Francis, but…" It looked like the shortest one with the straw in his hands wanted to answer, but the tallest one pressed his hand down on his head (it had a brick, Alfred noted) and beamed towards him.

"This is Raivis. And this—" He patted the glasses-wearing student's head, and the boy offered a shaky, forced smile. "—is Eduard. They are my suite mates. I am Nikolai."

"Oh." Grinning in a friendly manner, the American stuck out his hand. "Nice ta meet'cha, then, Nick-o!" There was an awkward pause, and the blue-eyed boy blinked as it seemed the air thickened. Soon it dispersed, though, and the Russian student smiled back at him happily, also sticking his hand out. They shared a very—_firm_ handshake.

"The same for me, friend. Perhaps you would like to come visit, somet—"

"BLOODY HELL! NO! I REFUSE! GET THAT AWAY FROM ME, YOU SODDING—" As loud as that voice was, the music abruptly stopped and everyone in the room looked up towards the second floor. A door banged open, and loud footsteps could be heard coming down the hall. As soon as the guy came into sight, Alfred gasped, his mouth dropping open.

"A-Arthur… ?"

_7:11 PM (Earlier)_

Of all the… The Brit muttered to himself, sitting alone on a fancy chair in the middle of the room with his arms crossed sulkily over his chest. The sign had been ripped off and tossed in the trash on the way up the stairs. He couldn't exit, the 'guards'—or whatever they were—saying menacingly that they'd be standing just outside the door. He actually hadn't been there more than a few minutes before there was a knock at the door, and the blond turned to watch as it opened. His brows rose as a smiling, dark-haired Hispanic man in a black eye-mask glided in and tossed off his sombrero. His costume was entirely in black, his shirt a loosely-threaded baggy tunic that dipped in a revealing 'V' over his chest. A matching cape fluttered around the tops of his boots and revealed the sheathed (and no doubt fake) saber at his side. As he whisked the cape dramatically off his shoulders, the man waved his hands energetically with wide, sweeping gestures and welcomed him with a bright tone.

"_Buenos noches~! _Ah, what have we here…" The Spaniard clicked his tongue, shaking his head and walking forward. Fleetingly, Arthur cast a longing glance towards the closing door and the small glimpse of hallway and freedom beyond. "My, my, you really didn't spend much time on your costume, did you?" That too-cheery voice brought him back, and the Brit jumped out of his chair in surprise as the man picked up his sleeve and tugged at the material lightly.

"Wh-What are you—!" Another tutting sound, and the Hispanic shook his head, stepping back.

"My, my, what do we have that would fit you, I wonder…" A finger tapped at the frat boy's chin, his eyes raking up and down Arthur's form. He suddenly felt very exposed, feeling his cheeks flush in indignation. Before he could say anything, though, those dark eyes lit up, and the Spaniard snapped his fingers.

"Ah, I've got it!" The dark-haired man hurried out of the room and into a closet at the other end, and Arthur glanced askance at the door, slowly beginning to creep towards it. He was startled rather badly when the energetic man returned, beaming excitedly and holding something white over his arm with a pair of accompanying sandals. Arthur felt his heart sink into his toes and put his hands up in front of him, backing away towards the wall with wide eyes.

"N-Now w-w-what are you planning on—" The Spaniard jumped him.

"Why, _dressing_ you, of course, _mi amigo~!_" He didn't have a chance, only able to squeak as his vest was swiftly stripped off over his head. When nimble fingers landed on the buttons of shirt, though, he shrieked, catching them and then clutching the fabric together with one hand, holding out his other.

"I-I understand! At least give me privacy!" The other man gave him a curious smile, tipping his head but nodding nonetheless and dropping the costume into his open palm. He politely walked to the middle of the room and turned his back on the Englishman, whistling happily. Muttering to himself, the flaxen-haired clerk cast a suspicious smile towards the other man before also turning his back, sighing at the piece of white fabric in his hand. He slowly finished unbuttoning his shirt, slipping it off, then carefully started to tug the weird outfit on over his head. Partially swallowed up by the costume, he blinked. Was there only… one armhole? Brows furrowing, he tried anyway, slipping an arm through the hole available and straightening it as best he could. He looked down at himself, and almost twitched.

It was a toga—a very _short_ toga, falling to only a little above his knees. More than that, the only sleeve was the one draped over his left, leaving his right shoulder exposed. Granted, it did cover his chest, but his arms were completely bare and without his slacks his legs would be, too! Blushing furiously, the affronted Brit turned around to give this stupid pervert a piece of his mind!

"What _is_ this?" The Hispanic turned around and clapped his hands over his mouth.

"_¡canastos!_ My, it really suits you, doesn't it?" The masked man smiled, tipping his head again, and started to step forward. "Your eyes add a splash of color, and your hair and complexion _do_ go well with white… Although something's missing, hm." He tapped his chin again, watching him—then shrugged, pointing a finger at Arthur's pants. "But those will have to go." Eyes going white, the Brit backed up further, shaking his head and raising his hands again.

"W-What? _No!_" Brown eyes blinked at him as the black-clad man paused in his advance.

"Are you not wearing underwear?" The mailroom clerk flushed, barking out another hiss. This man was really starting to get on his nerves!

"Of _course_ I am! What do you think, I—"

"_¡vamos!~_" The dark-haired man had just lunged at him again, knocking him to the floor and pushing up his toga to get at his pants. The Brit thrashed, struggling and trying to shove him off.

"Sod _off_, you—!"

It was at that moment the door chose to open and have someone step inside. Their heads whirled simultaneously to take in this new arrival. The man before him was decked out in a scarily-accurate purple princess costume, copying—of all the commercialized _bollocks!—_Princess Jasmine's wedding outfit from the first Aladdin movie. The blond felt a sad eye twitch that he even recognized it. The only real difference from the movie was the man's very-clearly-_not_-Arabian skin and the shoulder-length blond hair framing his face. Despite this, Arthur still felt the hope of salvation bubble in his throat, opening his mouth to— The other blond rushed forward with wide eyes, gesturing energetically. As soon as the euphoria of a quick escape had come, it died.

"_Omigosh_, Toni! That is, like, so _rad_!" The Latino beamed over his shoulder at his (Arthur realized this with trepidation) friend, still attempting to restrain the Brit beneath him who had abruptly renewed his efforts to escape with naught less than single-minded fervor.

"_Hola_, Feliks! Th-That's a lovely costume! Could you give me a hand here~?" Unfortunately for Arthur, the two of them combined managed to get his pants off. Blushing, he had his feet peeled of their socks and shoes and sandals slipped on them. He was pulled up to stand, and the two stylists stepped back to admire their handiwork. The Spaniard was looking thoughtful and tapping his chin, again, while the blond Jasmine-look-alike had his hands on his hips and was scrutinizing him rather intently. Bashful at the attention, his brows angled down towards one another as he rubbed his left upper arm with a hand, acutely aware of its bare state as well as the fact there were no pants shielding his legs from view. Thank god he'd worn his new pair of white boxers, today! Anything darker might have been embarrassingly visible.

Feliks clapped his hands together, and Arthur started in surprise, although Toni only cast a curious glance towards his fellow brother.

"He, like, totally needs wings!" Arthur felt his face lose color as the Spaniard started babbling in excitement, overcome as his brown eyes shone.

"Ah, you're right! And a halo! He could be an angel~!" They both nodded, sagely. Arthur felt his dignity slowly ebbing away as Toni advanced on him while Feliks went to fetch the needed items.

He was _not_ expecting the Polak to return with not only wings and a halo, but a bloody _fairy wand_ with a yellow star at the end of it. Fate sure liked to mock him, didn't it? Toni commented on it as well, but the flamboyant blond only grinned lazily and said it matched. The Brit had to fight the urge to put his head in his hands. If only he'd remembered the party was today _earlier_! Perhaps then he would've already had a 'proper' costume and thus been spared from this horror...

"No way, Toni! _Fer sure_, glitter would be, like, so completely—ya _know_?"

_7:44 PM (Now)_

"Bloody _hell_! No! I refuse!_ Get that away from me, you sodding—!_" He had to draw the line at glitter, and shoved the two stylists out of his way as he burst through the door and it banged against the wall, green eyes scanning the hallway for an escape route. He noticed the stairway and made a run for it, but as soon as he poked past the wall… He was suddenly very aware that everyone in the room below was staring at him. His face heated immediately, all too aware of how he looked and how everyone must have heard what he just— Embarrassed, he coughed into his hand—almost poking himself in the eye with that damn wand in the process! The crowd below him tittered and he scowled to cover his mortification, ignoring his flaming face and stomping down the stairs. To his great chagrin, the party-goers parted for him so he was forced to spin around to address the bulk of the room, self-conscious sweat beading on his temple.

"What are you all looking at? _Bugger off!"_ He didn't even see Alfred… h-he hadn't left him here, had he? Trudging over to the nearest table, he grabbed a filled, untouched red plastic party cup and tilted his head back, downing the tan liquid inside as quickly as he could. Hell, if Alfred wasn't here he didn't _want_ to remember this night. The crowd cheered around him, and soon the small conversations taking place on the sides (as well as the music) resumed, and the spotlight shifted off him. Finishing what was left in the plastic cup, he thumped it back down on the table, staring at it with a frown as he felt a little more heat rush into his cheeks. He leaned forward, one hand still around that plastic cup (which someone was so nicely refilling for him), pinning that blasted fairy wand against the flat surface with his fist curled around its handle.

"H-H-Hey, _Artie!_" He whipped his head around and felt the suspended halo jiggle a little with the quick movement, spying a tell-tale cowboy hat headed his way. Flushing again—and for no apparent reason—he turned and ran, suddenly needing a much cooler place to think. He barely noticed he took the re-filled cup with him. He didn't get far, though, having just reached the stairway when a hand wrapped around his wand arm at the elbow and stalled his retreat. He glared behind him, expecting to see—Oh. Black sombrero, black cape and costume. Low V-neck tunic, black eye-mask—Toni. He glared harder, bunging off the other man's hand and brandishing the wand at him.

"You! _You—_"

"Aaah, you're not leaving yet, are you, _mi amigo_? And after we spent so much time on your costume…" The Spaniard looked truly sad, and he ground out a growl, poking him in the chest with that stupid star.

"I didn't _ask _you to do that, and furthermore—"

"Hey! Hands off, Fairy!" He started, garbled something and looked around. The Italian doorman was making his way over to them, glaring fiercely and dragging his fake Tommy gun along behind him. "Leave him alone!" Arthur sputtered, floundering a bit.

"I—I _beg_ your pardon? This man—" The Italian slung an arm over the Hispanic's shoulders, slumping delinquently and raising an eyebrow at him.

"Did a damn fine job of making you look presentable. You going to take off, so soon? Bastard. At least finish that beer in your hand—" He'd honestly forgotten about it and continued shaking his wand at the pair, that Spaniard looking far too content and happy in his opinion.

"I don't need to—!" His words died in his throat as the 1930s-gangster-look-alike dragged the black-clad Latino down. Toni made a small sound of surprise, but unhesitatingly ducked his head towards the impromptu kiss, his massive sombrero cutting off the visual when they got close enough. Arthur's whole face flushed, and he threw back his second beer before hastily jetting off somewhere else, anywhere but where that public display was— Another hand caught his arm, a breathless voice in his ear.

"_Artie!_ Damn, why'd you—" Cheeks growing only pinker, he glanced meekly behind him, trying futilely to pull his arm from that warm hand.

"I-I… it…" He dropped his gaze to the floor, half-hearted struggles abandoned. Alfred relaxed the hold on his arm, instead slinging it over his shoulders, gently. A soft tone followed.

"Hey… you okay? Need a break?" He nodded, the blush taking over his entire face as he let the yank lead him away towards the back door, where they could pop out for a bit of fresh air, away from all the music and hustling bodies. He tried not to think about how he could feel that stupid git's warmth against his skin. Only the pin-striped sleeves on the yank's upper arms separated the rest of the limb from his own.

: : :

"Y'know, that…" He picked his gaze up from the floor, glancing over towards the American seated beside him. Alfred reached up and pulled the rim of his cowboy hat down further over his face. The blond blinked as he heard a mutter. His brows wrinkled downward in confusion, and he leaned in a little to hear better.

"I'm… sorry? What was that?" Another mumble, and he grew a little impatient, swatting the lad's arm. "Come out and say it clearly, you pillock!" To that, the yank's head shot up and he was met with a slightly-pink face and a defiant glare—that seemed to turn white as soon as he realized how close the Brit had come while he wasn't looking.

"I—I… hey, you've had a coupla beers, yeah? Maybe you should take it easy from now on." The Brit frowned, crossing his arms over his chest and lifting his nose, looking pointedly away. It was irritating enough that he couldn't lean back against the bench, due to those blasted wings back there.

"…Hmph. I suppose." He spied the cowboy rubbing the back of his neck, before Alfred clapped himself on the thighs and stood, casting Arthur a cocksure grin.

"Well! We've been out here for a while. Better get back to the party~!" And with that, he grabbed the blond's hand and dragged him back inside despite all protests to the opposite.

_9:55 PM_

He'd kept to his word. He hadn't had many more beers after the first two, as he took it slowly, finding a table in the corner and nursing one over the course of the next two hours. This was pleasant. Arthur didn't feel entirely out of control, but the world was floating nicely around him and he found many more things made him smile or laugh than usual. One of those things being Alfred—who was, quite frankly, _pissed_.

"'dis one's fer youuuu, Artie!" He smiled benignly, raising his fourth beer towards the idiot on stage about to start another round of karaoke. Most everyone around him was utterly sloshed, so he felt quite content and superior. Up on the make-shift stage Alfred grinned at him from over the red kerchief around his neck, squinting and giving him a thumbs-up. The intro began playing, some smooth rap song or something— Oh, wait. He vaguely recognized the tune and began to feel the first stirrings of dread.

_"Girl you're my angel, you're my darlin', angel~ Closer than my peeps you are to mee~ Bay-bee-ee~ Shorty you're my angel, you're my darlin', angel—~" _**[2]**

He felt his cheeks heat up as the crowd around him echoed with drunken laughter. D-Did that blasted tosser _know_ what he was singing? He'd likely just seen the_ title_ of the damned song, and what with how he was currently dressed it was probable that… Rubbing at his face with his palm to try and diminish the heat there, Arthur stood, downed the rest of his drink and stalked towards the stage. There were more drunken giggles around him, and he felt the halo bounce a little as he hoisted himself up in front of the idiot. He glared at him, taking the fool's arm and pulling.

"Come, now! You're utterly plastered, and I won't have you up here embarrassing—" The brunet grinned at him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and completely ignoring the song, laughing loudly into the mike.

"Heeeey, you guuuys~! This here's m' angel! Don't no one touch him, yeah~? He's miiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine~~" He giggled obnoxiously, and Arthur huffed, doing a valiant job of ignoring his further-reddening face, pulling one of the plonker's arms over his shoulders and tugging him away. The mike fell into the hands of an eager romantic (emboldened by the alcohol) who got up and continued the song for his girlfriend in the front row, who tittered and blew a kiss at him.

By gar, the lad was bloody _heavy! _He grumbled to himself as he made for the door, staggering a little as Alfred paused to laugh and wave at random people, continuously trying to pull himself in another direction. He grit his teeth, telling himself that he was repaying that damn debt from a few weeks ago, when Alfred had toted him home. They'd just about reached the door when that sodding American veered off, escaping his hold and stumbling erratically down an unlit hallway. He cursed, darting after him.

"You divvy yank! Get back here, you're—!" Warm hands pulled him into a dark, abandoned corner and he felt hot breath on the back of his neck as his bare legs were pushed against chap-leather. His face blossomed scarlet, but it felt a little too good and maybe it was the alcohol making him dizzy but he leaned back into the soft touches, hands falling to the ones around his waist with a small mumble and a slight attempt to push them off. "Y-You're—What're you—"

"Arthur." It was cooed into his ear, and he felt himself being moved. Soon enough he was pinned against where the wall met the corner, a knee pushed into the toga fabric between his legs in the semi-private darkness and the wings at his back crushed against that surface. There was only the faint light from the main room in this shady hall, but as his eyes began to adjust he started to make out lines in the face before him, soft curves that—

"_Arthur._" He shuddered at the huskily murmured sound of it, rough hands smoothing down his bare arms as the yank's face nestled against his neck, settling a few soft presses of lips there. The cowboy's knee moved, grinding gently against his crotch and he gasped, shoulder blades pushing back against the vertical ballast more as his hips arched reflexively into the touch. It was a tad uncomfortable, feather-covered molded plastic digging into his back. Busy fingers clumsily slid down his side, pawing gently at the fabric until they met thigh. Then they slowly ghosted upwards—

His eyes shot open, and he suddenly regained his sense.

_Too fast. Much too fast!_

"A-Alfred, s-stah—" Warm lips too close to a corner of his mouth cut off the sound and some inner voice cried out.

_Is this our first kiss—?_

He clenched his eyes shut, moving his head so that instead his cheek met those insistent lips. The halo's suspension device (basically a clear plastic circlet) jostled against his head as he was pressed against the wall.

_No. I refuse. Even if… _Even if he wouldn't… mind… kissing—the idiot before him, it was much too soon! They weren't even dating, and even if they were—Alfred was _far_ too drunk to remember this in the morning. No. _No._ It couldn't be like this. He refused to cheapen what… whatever-it-was that was between them. No. W-When they were sober, p-p-perhaps if—

His train of thought disconnected as that knee moved upwards, again igniting the heat pooling in his stomach. The blond's head tipped back and inadvertently scraped the halo roughly against the wall as a soft groan escaped, a hushed word riding the end of it.

"N-N-No—" The Brit moved his hands, letting them wander shyly up to cup that stupid boy's cheeks. He forced him away from his neck with that hold, panting softly as he gazed down through slivers of jade and tried to ignore the persistent pressure on his groin and the warmth coiling up from there to blaze on his cheeks. Absently, his fingers brushed a few strands of hair from the younger man's face.

"Alfred." Hazed blue angled up at him and then there was a drunken version of that same wide smile and the boy leaned up to—hastily, he covered that mouth with his hand. None too soon! The back of that hand bumped against his own lips, and he gazed quietly into the clouded azure eyes beneath. Rough but gentle digits glided down and the knee removed itself as the cowboy's hands encircled his waist and Alfred adjusted himself a little, leaning his forehead against Arthur's and grinning fuzzily down towards him (the blond could tell, for the other's cheeks bubbled up), words a bit slurred.

"Yer m' angel… yeaaah~?" Those lips curved only more against his palm, dark blue glimmering mistily towards him and the Brit let out a slow breath, sparing the drunken freshman a humoring smile.

"Mm, of course. Now let's get you back to your room, yes?" There was a whine in the yank's throat and Arthur rolled his eyes, maneuvering himself so as to grab one of Alfred's arms and again prop it over his shoulder. They teetered a little on the short sidewalk stroll to Waltman Hall. They had just made it to the sign-in desk when he realized he was still in costume—and that his street clothes were back in the frat house. There was no way in hell he was going back in there, what with everyone still drunk and the room his clothes were in likely locked… Sighing, he signed himself in, presented Alfred's card to the guard for the inebriated student, and lugged him off towards the lift, trying to ignore the fact that the brunet's hands kept wanting to go around his waist.

They made it to the suite without incident, and he noticed idly that no one else was back, yet. He did hear a bit of music in one room—the one he passed by in the hallway—but no one came out to bother him, so he trekked on. He deposited the drunken college student on his proper bed, kneeling down to slide off the boy's shoes and socks. A hand in his hair messily plucked the circlet (and the attached halo) from his head, and he looked up, spying another vague smile. The older man frowned, straightening and going to the chaps and belts around the boy's waist. He flushed as his hands settled there, muttering something to justify himself as they went to work.

"It's just… you'll be more comfortable if I can just—" He got the belts for the leather chaps undone, thank god. There was no way he was going to try to get the boy out of his jeans, it would be too awkward. Peeling off the chaps, he easily undid the leather vest and started to slip it off, when he felt hands on his back and froze. But, apparently something had clicked about his earlier refusal in that dumb brain, and the fingers only somewhat clumsily slid the wings from his back, the elastic attachments now pressing into his upper arms. He took a step away, pulling off the wings and setting them off to the side with the halo and Alfred's folded chaps and vest. The blond reached up, carefully extracting the cowboy hat (it'd fallen a good while earlier, but the pull string prevented it from being lost) hanging from the brunet's neck. No sooner had he done this than those strong arms were around him, again, drawing him close and pressing his chin with mellow forcefulness into the taller man's shoulder, a voice murmuring sweetly in his ear.

"Mmmn… stay 'n sweet m' dreams…~?" Arthur almost scoffed at the corny line, his face reddening once more, but… He was still exhausted from the past two weeks, and tonight, really… and… he couldn't go wandering the streets dressed like this—and his change of clothes were next-door in the frat house, and… He sighed, giving in. It wasn't as though Alfred wasn't wearing pants, anyway, and neither of them were naked, although he was showing a bit more skin than he'd like. Face pinking, again, he shoved lightly at the boy's arms and they slowly loosened. Drawing back, he plucked the spectacles from the underclassman's face, looking away as he set them atop the dresser nearby.

"F-Fine—If it will get you to shut up and go to sleep!" He snapped, grouchily. There was an airy giggle, and Alfred squirmed about childishly on the sheets, kicking and tumbling under the covers, leaving an opening. Hesitantly, the blond slipped off his sandals and slowly padded towards the bed, heart thumping wildly with each step. When he was close enough, a hand reached out and grabbed his wrist. Soft, hazy azure eyes glimmered pleadingly at him from under sleepy lashes. He huffed, batting away the hand and climbing in beside the idiot, not quite… up to this. The Brit laid on his side with his back to the div, an arm propping up his head in order to forgo the intimate act of sharing a pillow. He was tense as he pulled the comforter sharply over them both, and for a moment there was only still silence. Then—an arm hooked over his waist, a hand settling faintly over his stomach. It dragged him kindly away from the very edge of the narrow twin-size mattress (where he'd settled), and there was soon a tender breath in his ear.

"Nigh', Art…" He responded gruffly, shifting a bit to get more comfortable, curling his knees up under himself defensively and most assuredly _not _giving into the urge to place a hand over the one resting at his hip. He closed his eyes, pensive. Nothing like this ever lasted. Well, not for him, at least. Perhaps he should… enjoy it while it lasted?

"Good night, you rat-arsed _moron_." He waited. Perhaps it was a while, or perhaps it only felt like it, but as soon as Alfred's breaths evened out and he was sure the bloke was asleep—he swallowed, quietly.

Trembling fingers moved with exaggerated caution, gingerly lighting atop the barest side of the larger digits beneath.

He fell asleep like that.

: : :

**[1]** – Train In Vain (by The Clash)

**[2]** – Angel (by Shaggy)

_I don't own those songs, either! Please don't sue! Reviews would make me really, really, happy~!_

_Also, there's a poll up on my profile for possible future scenes. Go to it, and we'll see what happens! :3 -Fox_


	3. Νοέμβριος

_**This is AU. Really AU. So AU that some characters' names have been changed. Don't like it? Go read something else!**_

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or any of its characters. Those belong to Himeruya Hidekaz-sensei, who made a lot more out of them than I ever could have. ^^;; I just do fanfiction for fun, and earn no monetary rewards for writing it. Reviews are, of course, worth as much as silver.

_Summary: Unauthorized opening, inspection or tampering of mail is considered a federal offense and thus punishable by law. One wonders if this statute applies to the employees, as well._

Title: Tampering With Mail Clerks Is Illegal

Chapter Three: Νοέμβριος (Greek)

_Chapter Three: November_

Word Count: 18,602

Page Count: 28

[Total Word Count: 55,450]

[Total Page Count: 83]

Anime: Hetalia  
Pairing(s) in this chapter: Alfred/Arthur [America/England], Luca/Hartmut [North Italy/Germany], Gilbert/Matthew [Prussia/Canada], Nikolai/Alfred [Russia/America], Past Arthur/OCs [England/Kenya, England/Sudan, England/India, England/Nigeria, England/Libya]

Warning: Language (mostly Arthur), BL

Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)  
Date: Tuesday, August 3, 2010

[On 23 Favorites and 28 Author Alerts] Eep! S-So many! **A big thank-you to those who Favorite! **:3

[30 reviews for 1,782 hits!] H-How the hell did the hit count jump up to there, so fast? x/x

_**Fic Recs: The Baffled King and the Idiot Hero, by Ellarose C**__ [ h t t p : / / w w w . f a n f i c t i o n . n e t / s / 5 8 1 9 8 8 0 / 1 / T h e _ B a f f l e d _ K i n g _ a n d _ t h e _ I d i o t _ H e r o ], __**Prometheus Rising by White Mizerable **__[ h t t p : / / w w w . f a n f i c t i o n . n e t / s / 5 8 4 7 4 5 4 / 1 / P r o m e t h e u s _ R i s i n g ], __**How to leave the closet by ButterFish**__ [ h t t p : / / w w w . f a n f i c t i o n . n e t / s / 5 5 2 5 5 7 8 / 1 / H o w _ t o _ l e a v e _ t h e _ c l o s e t ], and__** Liete's **__continuous series of "__**delinquent AU" fics**__ [ h t t p : / / w w w . f a n f i c t i o n . n e t / u / 1 2 4 2 6 / l i e t e ]._

Miscellaneous Notes(May 30, 2010): America calls Russia 'Nick' (for Nikolai) because he's a jerk about foreign names and 'Nikolai' sounds better shortened to the more familiar American/British English 'Nick', in his opinion. ...Yeah. My America muse refuses to call Russia anything else, in this fic (no, I wasn't planning for him to call Russia that when I renamed Russia—it just sort of… happened).

Prussia uses German and France and Canada use French, in this chapter. [ Keep your iGoogles on standby, everyone~! xD ;;; ] I apologize if it is horrible. ;.;

**Linguistic note for the ****Americans**** reading this:** When England says 'Blow me' it's a shorter form of the British English exclamation 'Blow me down'. xD ;; It's meant to be for surprise, so he's not asking America to do anything—buuut in American English it sounds a liiittle like~ …Erm. Yes. x.o;; Like _that._ Thus America's reaction. x3~

Why, _yes,_ the other-country-OCs that are England's exes were picked to (however briefly) represent those nations because they are all former British colonies! xD [_Learn _something from this Hetalia fic—despite it being an AU—bugger all! x.o;; ]

7/14/2010: Late update. x.x I haven't lost interest in this fic or had writer's block, I swear! I've been writing, it's just—I've gotten bitten by the rp bug for the first time in three years, so if my Japan/France/America from Goodreads are reading this_… it's all your guys' faults!_ D: [ I'm totally not being sold on England/Japan and France/England by rping with them… nooo… never! x/x~ Gah. Bad author! x.x ]

8/3/2010: This chapter might have to tide you over for another little while (I haven't written too much for chapter four, as of yet, sooo…). D: Enjoy it while you can? I'm still thinking about this fic, don't worry~! It just might take me a bit of time to get something else out, as school's starting back up in less than a month. My friend who was proof-reading for plot and characterization and such has seemed to have abandoned me, as well. I haven't heard from her in just about as long as you guys haven't heard from me… j~j

_This chapter was written to the music listed below._

Songs: World Is Mine (by Hatsune Miku), Pub and GO!, Absolutely Invincible English Gentleman, Country From Where The Sun Rises, Excuse Me I Am Sorry, Gee (by SNSD), W.D.C., Pechka, Winter, Aiyah! Four-Thousand Years, Hello China

Albums:_ Nevermind The Bollocks, Here's The Sex Pistols_ (by the Sex Pistols), _London Calling_ (by The Clash)

**Important notes: Alfred **_**is **_**taller than Arthur in this fic (even though there's really only two centimeters' difference between them…). He just 'looks up' at Arthur a lot because he's leaning over and trying to be all cute (and manipulative, so as to get his way). xD ;; Just thought I'd clarify that, because some people seemed confused~! :3**

: : : : : : :

Sunlight filtered in through the window, and he winced against the growing light on the outside of his eyelids. They peeked slowly open, vision blurred slightly as the wall across from him—looked unfamiliar? Squinting slightly, the student raised a few fingers to rub at his eyes, focusing slowly on the _Rammstein_ poster across the way. He frowned a little and made to shift, but a slow mumble behind him made him freeze. Something heavy and warm curled further around his waist and he jerked a little as his face bathed itself in cerise, having not realized the limb was there. He didn't need to look behind him to confirm who was there, and put a hand to his head, muttering softly.

"Fuck…" It was soft, though, and he painstakingly made to shift out of the other's grasp, moving that limb and slipping out of the bed as unobtrusively as possible. It thumped back on the bed behind him, and Arthur raised a hand to try and tame the mussed blond strands that comprised his hair with a sigh, glancing back. The stupid yank was still in his costume from the night before—well, at least the jeans and blue-and-white pinstriped shirt. Something odd was struggling at a corner of his mouth, but he looked away, going to gather the wings and halo set aside the night before.

He pushed down the unease that was building—the awkwardness that would ensue if Alfred were to wake now. Not that anything had _really_ happened, last night—but his cheeks still felt a little warm for no real reason at all. With a last lingering look back at the sleeping freshman and a moment's hesitation—the Brit slid on his sandals and walked out the door. Once downstairs, he made his way over to the neighboring frat house at a brisk stride (all too aware of his odd attire), rapping sharply on the door with his free hand and hoping against hope that someone was awake and— It swung open, revealing an all-too-familiar smiling face.

"Ah! _Buenos dias_, did you—"

"I'm here for my clothes." He stated it bluntly, shoving the halo and wings at the man and striding past the Spaniard to make for the stairs. The Latino wandered after him, laughing lightly. There were asleep college students everywhere—passed out on tables, chairs, the stage, even! Casting a suspicious glance behind him as they ascended the stairs, Toni returned it with a cheerful smile.

_"¿Cual es ...?"_

"Why are you so—Eh, nevermind." Arthur shook his head, deciding he really didn't care why the chap was so wide-awake and peppy. He continued to stomp up the stairs, flinging open the door to the room and— There was a shriek and he froze, eyes wide and hand still on the doorknob. Some weird outfit including a short green skirt, an apron, a brown corset with pink threading was lying haphazardly on the floor, just beside what seemed to be a matching pair of green suspenders and— The shriek had come from the bed, some auburn-haired woman with a weird curl in front of her face sitting up and clutching the sheets to her chest. His face bloomed red.

"I-I-I'm sorry, I d-didn't realize—" There was a grumble and a hand flailed out, dragging the woman back down despite her flailing and protests.

"Nnnhn—go back to sleep…"

"B-B-B-But, Hartmut, there's a guy—!" Was it him, or did that voice now sound a little lower than the shriek he'd heard, before? The blond heard quick footsteps behind him, though, and soon Toni was beaming at him warmly as he blocked his view and firmly shut the door behind him.

"_Mi amigo_, the room with your clothes in it is over this way—" Flushing only brighter, he nodded, following. The Spaniard left him alone in the room, and he quickly slid on his socks and slacks with mirroring sighs of relief. Having barely worn them the night before, they were still rather clean. The blond still wrinkled his nose, though. He needed a shower, having had nothing to change into the night before, and thus forced to forgo his nightly routine. He'd like to brush his teeth, as well. Sighing, the Brit quietly finished buttoning up his pale orange shirt, tucking it in before slipping the dark green sweater vest over his head.

: : :

Grinning like a madman, he rocked back and forth on his heels in the elevator, pleased with himself. That girl he'd banged last night sure was _hot_! The albino chuckled, adjusting the black SS hat on his head. Who knew she'd be crazy for Nazi bondage games, like that? Weird fetish. He shrugged, though, stepping out as the elevator dinged and beginning to stride towards his dorm. A loud scuffling sound from the RA's room made him slow, though, raising a brow. He then grinned, laughing obnoxiously to himself. Man, he should've expected ol' Fran to get some, too! What he _didn't _expect, though, was for the door to burst open and a willowy, wavy-haired dirty blonde to come darting out. The kid barreled right into him and he backpedaled a little, hands going to the girl's shoulders to steady himself as his eyebrows shot up. Her curvy bangs covered her bowed face, and she had a stuffed bear clutched tightly in her arms in front of her, lessening the effect of their collision.

"Shit, watch where you're going! You—" She looked up, and he caught his breath. Those eyes were way too violet-purple. They glistened and glimmered at the corners behind the slightly rounded glasses set askew on her face—she was crying, the tears still streaming down. His expression unconsciously softened (damn his weak spot for a girl's sad face!), and he lifted a hand to try to— "Hey, now…" She shoved him away, a sob hitching in her throat as she tore for the stairs. He had half a mind to follow her and—lacking anything better to do—did, casting a dirty glance back to the RA's door, which had swung shut after she'd burst out of it.

"Wait! What's—_dammit!_" He kept an eye on the red and black flannel shirt that fluttered as she hastily pounded down the steps, bare feet slapping the unforgiving cement. Her jeans were up, at least—just barely dangling from her hips, apparently not fully zipped or buttoned—one brown suspender over her shoulder practically _keeping _them up and the other waving uselessly behind, as though she'd pulled the first one on in a hurry.

"Hey!" She glanced over her shoulder as she pushed the stairway door open on the floor below—red face, wet streaks still cutting down her cheeks as she flailed the stuffed polar bear as though it could actually cause harm, yelling at him. …Well, he guessed she _tried_ to yell. It sounded more like a vehemently strained whisper, her face still (angrily?) flushed, a long random wisp of a curl that he previously hadn't noticed bouncing in front of her face.

"I-It's nothing to do with you!" It took him a moment to realize, after she turned to him—that her shirt was actually unbuttoned. He hadn't noticed before, because she'd been clutching that damn toy to her chest like a lifeline. Unthinkingly, his eyes flicked downward, expecting to see a lacy bra or something poking out between—oh. Flat skin. No breasts, either. He blinked, feeling his own face flush a little in mistaking the guy's freaking _gender._ And with those looks… it probably happened a lot. When s—_he_ turned to leave, the German lunged forward, grabbing the guy's upper arm and forcing him to stop. Girl or not, that guy's face was still miserable… and, hell, he'd take any chance he could to make Francis' life just as bad.

"Hey, dude, what the fuck?" There was the smallest of flinches to his language but he ignored it, shaking the man's arm, ruby eyes hard. "Did Fran slip you a roofie and rape you or something?" The other student's shoulder was shaking beneath his firm grip. Abruptly the guy turned and glared at him (as though insulted by the very _suggestion _he'd been coerced into something he didn't want), that strained voice raising a notch to an almost-normal speaking level.

"N-No, he didn't, but— E-Excuse me!" The polar bear was shoved into his collarbone and Gilbert stumbled back a few paces, reflexively grasping it and the boy (arm now freed) hurried through the emergency door and onto the fourth floor. He followed after slowly, peeking slightly as the distraught kid banged on one door in specific—four-sixteen, he noted—and just caught the soft-spoken, entreating cries.

"Tino, Tino! P-Please, let me in, my key—" The door opened and the poor boy stumbled inside, crying and clinging on to whoever was there. Scratching his head uncomfortably, red eyes slid to the stuffed polar bear in his arms. When the door shut Gilbert strode the rest of the way forward, setting it down in front and glancing up towards the ceiling. He stuck his hands in the pockets of the black Schutzstaffel uniform-costume he still wore, turning to go and do the right thing.

Even if it meant—this early in the morning, no less!—kicking Fran's ugly mug to the street and back.

…Oh, no, wait—that was a good thing~!

He grinned.

: : :

"Nnnn…" His head was throbbing, and he put a hand to it, wincing and rolling over, burrowing further into the covers with a suffering exhale. He mussed his hair, blinking blearily into the covers. There'd been a draft and that was what eventually prodded him to wake, but it didn't really make sense—most of the comforter was over him, anyway. He figured he was forgetting something, but it didn't come to mind. Couldn't be that important, right? Groaning, the American stuffed his head back under the pillow.

God, how much had he _had_, last night?

: : :

Standing outside Waltman Hall, leaned back against the building, his arms crossed over his front, the Brit thought. Clearly… clearly, he had no reason to go back in, yes? After all, the fact Alfred had got completely plastered was the yank's own fault, right? A few fingers rose to rub at the blond's temple as he sighed. Really… he needn't go back in there. He'd best head back to the apartment, and— His mobile was out of his pocket and in his hand in another moment, as he waited impatiently for Ren to pick up.

"_Arthur-san?" _Still rubbing his temple with his other hand, he opened his mouth to inform his room mate of the current situation.

"A friend of mine is ill. He's—" He blinked, stopping as soon as he realized his words. Ren remained quiet on the other end of the line, politely, until a few beats had passed.

_"…Arthur-san?"_ The blond shook his head, leaning his head into his hand. He mumbled.

"I must be mad…"

_"Eh? What was that? Arthur-san, it's a bit difficult to hear you—"_

"Sorry… I'll be back soon. I'm fine." He scarcely waited to hear the response before snapping his mobile shut. Leaning his head back against the concrete wall of the dorm, he furrowed his brows at the sky. Why did he care? Other than the fact that… Alfred seemed to—like him, perhaps? His cheeks colored and so he trained his gaze to the ground, shaking his head rapidly, fair strands hitting his forehead and cheeks with the motion. It did nothing to dissuade the thoughts pooling in the back of his mind, though. If… well—the yank _had_ been drunk, but he'd been coherent to listen when Arthur'd said no, and… didn't—didn't that speak of… something? Putting his hand to his head, once more, he shook it softer than before. Utterly ridiculous. Was that loon's idiocy wearing off on him? Sticking his mobile back in his pocket, he headed off to his apartment for a much-needed shower and some well-deserved time to think.

: : :

Well, it was obvious the lad was attracted to him. Wasn't it? After all, when one was drunk it didn't necessarily mean they did things they didn't want to, right? According to everything he'd ever read (and he'd done that a lot, the past few days) when one was inebriated it only tended to lower their inhibitions. His cheeks colored. It was quite a possibility that Alfred _did_—

"A-Arthur-san?" He was jarred out of his thoughts, chin reclined on the heel of a hand as he blinked towards his flat mate. The tea in front of him was just freshly steeped, and a pleasant milky brown color due to the milk he'd added. He was only really waiting for the scones in the oven to finish cooking. Straightening from his absent-minded, thoughtful lean, the Brit offered a polite smile towards the nervous-looking Japanese man.

"Ah, yes?" He sniffed the air, and furrowed his brows, lifting his mug to take a sip. The Asian lad's dark eyes flitted nervously towards the oven, Ren speaking just as the luke-warm beverage hit his lips.

"H-How long has the oven been—"

"Oh,_ blast_!" He quickly sprang up from his chair, rushing over to the appliance and opening the door. A little bit of smoke billowed out and he hastily grabbed an oven mitt, pulling the tray out and soundly shutting the door before too much more could escape. He dumped the tray on the stove, then quickly turning the dials to shut the oven off. It was only then he turned to look at his creations. His shoulders sagged in utter defeat.

Black. Burnt, crispy and completely ruined. He thought he might cry. He'd made sure to follow _every_ rule on the recipe with meticulous care! How could he have forgotten the time? The blond put his head in his hands, shaking it. He'd… wanted to… Well, that wasn't important now, was it? They were ruined. A vaguely hopeful glance towards Ren only confirmed it, and he grabbed the tray with his padded hand, as well as a spatula, and headed over towards the rubbish bin to begin scraping the little blocks of charcoal that once were scone-hopefuls into it. When he was finished, he felt a careful voice behind him, and looked back miserably. Ren was poking at the other half of the yet-unbaked batch still in the bowl on the counter, as though testing the consistency—but upon noticing Arthur's attention stopped, and politely smiled.

"Arthur-san… the recipe seems to be all right. Perhaps you should try again, but please remember to time how long they should be in, yes?" The mail clerk sighed, walking back over to the stove and placing the tray on top of it, glumly.

"What's the point? I always mess it up, somehow…" There's no way Alfred would want to—

"Pardon me, Arthur-san… but is there… someone you were making these for?" His cheeks flooded again and he quickly looked away, waving his non-gloved hand in the air.

"D-D-Don't be ridiculous! I just missed the taste of home—" Well, that was partly true, at least. "—and scones are a rather common British food! I only made them to go with my tea!" By the last sentence he was completely yelling in defense of his motives, but caught himself before he could rant further, covering his mouth with the hand yet encased in an oven mitt. Green eyes were wide. "O-Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—" But his flat mate was only smiling calmly at him. The Japanese lad stepped over to the sink, rolling up his sleeves and making to wash his hands.

"I understand, Arthur-san. Please allow me to help you make another batch?" He felt a little tickle of pride, but… He_ did_ want to make them right. And while he sometimes couldn't trust his own taste, at least if they made another tray Ren could taste them and tell him if they were horrible, right? Squaring his shoulders, the Brit lifted his chin with a sharp nod.

"Perhaps you're right. Yes! Let's try this together."

It was only afterwards, when the second tray came out and he nervously watched Ren try one did he feel any small spark of relief. The shorter boy had bit into one—hard on the outside, fluffy and light on the inside, although they were a little black around the bottom edges—and cast him a slight smile. Ren confirmed that they were, indeed, edible, and congratulated Arthur on doing such a good job of sticking to the recipe, this time.

: : :

A few of the scones were safely packed away for tomorrow, in a little airtight clear plastic case. At the moment he was staring up at the ceiling, feeling a strange flutter somewhere in the area of his abdomen. Large brows wrinkled together as he thought. It was certainly… a possibility that Alfred might be attracted to him, in some way. They hadn't exactly had much time to discuss their preferences, and he truly thought it was a bit odd to flaunt such a thing when one hardly knew someone. The States were better about accepting orientations well—on the whole—but there were still those people who would search for any reason to discriminate against someone, and he didn't particularly feel like dealing with it. For yanks, though—from what he'd seen, Americans tended to be loud and obnoxious about their preferences. So he really had no way of knowing, without asking an all-too-forward question that would be rather rude due to prying into the brunet's private life. He closed his eyes, inhaling slowly.

To be sure, it was quite possible that if he asked that question the boy would get offended. He couldn't imagine Alfred being short of having women interested in him—the thought sent a stone into his gut, and he let out a heavy sigh. Besides, he had been drunk. Some people tended to act in ways differently while under the influence, and it didn't always have to have a base in reality… Alfred didn't have to be gay to want to kiss him, while drunk. He could've mistaken him for a girl in the darkness, anyway.

Although that didn't explain why the bloke had said his name.

Blushing furiously, he turned over onto his stomach, pulling his pillow over his head and hiding from the lamplight peering in from outside with a small sound. At least, then… at least Alfred had known who he was, at that point. So, perhaps—he shook his head, eyes clenching firmly shut. He would_ not_ make any assumptions until he was positively certain. He would _not_ ask Alfred his sexual preference, he reiterated, feeling a darker flush steal over his nose at the thought. He shook his face against the mattress with a low moan in the back of his throat. Oh, why… _why_ had he gone to that Halloween party? A hand pressed against his stomach beneath his pajama top, palm rubbing against it idly in his misery—as though he could abate the butterflies with the motions.

He had… he had wanted to bake those scones, for Alfred. And the weather was getting colder—it was November, already!—so he would be seeing a good deal less of the chap in the future unless he did something about it. Forehead slowly relaxing, the Brit still on his stomach beneath the comforter, he thought on it. Logically, really. If he offered Alfred the scones tomorrow, then the boy would be indebted and thus obliged to take him out for—for lunch, or some such thing, the next day. That would be all right, wouldn't it? And while it may be a bit uncomfortable, it might… it might be the best idea to tell Alfred what he'd—he'd _nearly _done, when he was drunk that night. It would be the proper thing to do. Arthur's cheeks brightened once more, heat bouncing off the insulating pillow and mattress and making his entire head feel too warm.

Ah, uhm. Yes. That would be the best way to go about it. After all—Alfred had offered every time they'd met on the football field, for the past two months. Even though he'd never taken him up on it—it was still possible that the offer stood, correct? Yes. Most likely. And, er… it would only be to have Alfred pay him back for the scones. Which Ren had confirmed were edible. Yes. And he'd made them. Not for Alfred, of course! For himself. Because… they reminded him of Britain. …Yes. That would do well. He could feign that he'd brought them for lunch, really. …Yes.

It would be brilliant.

: : :

Seated behind the high counter, the plastic container full of scones set neatly on his lap, Arthur checked his watch for the fourth time in the past minute. _1:15. _Where could that damn yank _be_? He was usually here by now. Mildly worried, he drummed his fingers over the snap-on plastic lid, eyes dropping to the desktop before him as he bit his lip. Of course it would be like this. The one time he would make a decision of some minor importance, it would backfire. His grip on the plastic box intensified a little. Really, it was foolish of him to think that every Friday the boy would be perfectly on time—wasn't it? To think, even, that—

"Artie!" Oh good lord he nearly fell out of his seat. The Brit recovered magnificently, though, standing and offering a sunny smile towards the brunet, attempting to swallow his nerves as he _nonchalantly_ placed the small plastic tub atop the counter, lifting a hand to slide off his reading glasses (not that he'd been reading much, today, but one had to make an effort to present an air of normalcy!).

"A-Ah, hello! Five-fourteen, wasn't it? I'll be—" He made to hastily hurry off, but a succinct index finger tapping the top of the plastic case brought his attention back towards those curious blue eyes behind thin lenses. Had the lad's hair always glinted gold like that in the light?

"Hey, what're these?" His mouth went dry, a little, and he tried a slightly shakier smile, reaching down to pop off the lid so it was loose while wrenching his eyes from that sight. There was another odd flutter in his stomach, which he soundly ignored as best he could.

"They're—ah—They're scones." Alfred squinted at him in confusion, and he snapped before he could stop himself. "From Britain! They're quite popular, I assure you—" Oh. His gaze widened as he realized he'd been more… forceful, than he'd intended. The blond pushed a little nervous laugh out before waving the moment off, willing himself to turn and give his back to the yank, walking away down the grid of mailboxes as he continued. His hands clasped each other in front of his stomach, tightly.

"F-F-Feel free to have some, if you'd like!" He took his time, handling the mail extra carefully as he watched Alfred out of the corner of his eye. The American had chosen one, and was examining it from all angles, curiously. His stomach did an unnatural little movement that left his knees trembling a little as his palms began to perspire. Would he like it? That thought was quickly stifled as he told himself it didn't matter if Alfred liked it, or not. No, it really didn't. He hadn't painstakingly measured out the ingredients, checking the recipe about four times for each item to be sure he was putting the correct amount in. He hadn't nearly burned his hand in his haste to get them out of the oven, worried they'd be burnt like the batch before them if he didn't remove them right at the fifteen-minute mark.

As the American bit into the one he held Arthur quickly averted his eyes away, not wanting to see if there was an expression of utter distaste on the younger man's face. He kept his eyes to the floor as he walked back, heart thumping in his ears. When he reached the desk he at last looked up, face neutral and tone diligently 'casual' as he held out the boy's mail.

"How are they?" He patted himself on the back that his face was curved into a look of bored disinterest, and his voice didn't shake at all. Alfred stopped chewing for a moment, blinking at him before swallowing and giving him a smile.

"They're like—cookies, sorta. Only a little fluffier. Like, um…" He laughed, waving the half-eaten scone in his face and sending a few crumbs flying. "They're like doughnuts, a little! Only not as sweet. And shaped differently. But they're not bad—" His entire chest flooded with warmth, and he couldn't help the fact that a corner of his lips tipped up in an aborted proud smile. Alfred liked them! His face felt a little warm suddenly, but he couldn't seem to care about it—until he realized the yank had stopped chewing and was staring at him, a bit. He jarred himself out of the successful-cook euphoria he'd been floating in, going with the feeling in his chest and smiling a bit, looking down and tentatively pushing the small container towards the American.

"A-Ah, is that so? I'm glad you like them! Feel free to take the rest—" The boy grinned at him again, moving to grab the lid and his mail—their fingers brushing, just faintly (not that he noticed something silly like that!)—taking another scone before he fixed the top back on.

"Wow, really? Thanks!" He'd half-hoped the boy would stay, but Alfred only gave him another dazzling(!)ly grateful smile before making to turn around. "Well, I guess I'll see ya—"

"Wait!" In his momentary panic it was perhaps a little louder than he'd meant it to be, but—the bloke heard it and swiveled his head to look back at him, inquisitively. Suddenly rather aware of the situation he hastily grabbed his reading glasses, slipping them back on as he then proceeded to stare at his hands. They were clenched tightly around the handle of the drawer in front of him. Alfred couldn't see that, though, the counter was too high. Thank god.

"A-Ah, I mean, since—er, the weather's getting colder, isn't it?" He just blurted it, green eyes wavering but lifting up to lock on the bluer ones across the way. The American raised a brow, and he felt his heart sink a little.

"Yeah, so?" He wanted to bang his head against that desk. It would work, he only had to—

"I-I probably won't be playing football much, anymore. With how—with how cold it's getting."

"Oh, yeah? That's too bad. Guess I'll be seeing less of you, then?" Dammit, but his eyes were back on his hands and the stupid pillock was still staring at him, not getting it. Arthur forced his gaze back up with a little bit of gumption, jade narrowed and determined.

"A-And you've… got my lunch, there." He quickly gestured towards the scones, and Alfred opened his mouth to respond, eyebrows descending in annoyance—the Brit kept going, desperate not to be interrupted as he might lose his nerve.

"A-And since it's my lunch, you owe me! Tomorrow." He puffed up his chest, pointing solemnly at the brunet who was, by now, staring at him with a mix of astonishment and… what was that? He didn't take the time to think.

"Tomorrow! You owe me lunch!" There, he'd gotten it out, and took a breath—before realizing Alfred hadn't reacted, was just watching him with as dumbfounded an expression as before. His cheeks suddenly inflamed themselves in shame. Had it been too presumptuous? Perhaps he'd assumed wrong, and the boy would rather not— He coughed, hiding it in a fisted hand as he looked away again, trying to hide his disappointment—n-n-no, not that at all! It was frustration. Yes!

"E-Er—that's… i-if it's too much trouble I wouldn't wish to—"

A hard hand clapped him on the shoulder and he jumped, jerking his gaze back up. Sapphire eyes were much closer than they'd been, before, smiling at him from behind their spectacles as Alfred leaned over the counter a little, so their eyes were level.

"What, you kidding? Of course it's fine!" He chirped, looking far too happy with the proclamation. God, his entire face was practically_ radiating_ joy. The blond looked down again, wrestling with the relieved smile that wanted to break over his countenance as something in his chest loosened. Feeling a little warm again, all he could do was nod and try not to pay too much attention to that rough hand still resting on his shoulder.

"Y-Yes, well… tomorrow, then?" He looked to the side, lifting an arm to brush Alfred's hand off of him, delicately. It went without much fight, and he glanced back, feeling that same weird impulse to lift up a corner of his lips, again. "The same place as usual?" It was an easy spot to meet, after all, that field—and apparently the other student agreed, because he grinned and nodded.

"Yeah, sure! Well, I've got some things I've gotta study for, so—" Happy to be in more familiar conversational waters, the Brit just nodded, turning to go complete some of his regular work chores.

"Of course, yes, I understand. I suppose I'll—"

"See you tomorrow~!" Alfred finished the sentence for him, the brunet's cheeks tinted an eager pink as he offered an even wider smile—if it was possible—at last turning and waving behind him as he departed, the little tub of scones safely tucked under an arm. The sudden swell of self-pride did not diminish, even as Arthur stepped into the area behind the mailboxes, going about his business, giving in and smiling elatedly to himself now that no one was around to witness it.

_ Well, that didn't go near so horribly as I feared it would!_

: : :

_I've got a date! _

He practically skipped (manfully!) into the elevator, pressing the button before thrusting his hands into his jeans pockets as the doors slid shut. He whistled to himself in the empty metal box as it ascended. His backpack was still over one shoulder, the little plastic tub of scones safely pinned between the crook of his elbow and his side. The American's smile was big enough to easily outshine the florescent lights bearing down on him from above.

"I've got a date." He chuckled to himself, beaming up at the numbers over the doors as they dinged, mouth's corners stubbornly refusing to slump downward so much as he tried to compose himself. A little flutter in his chest answered the soft statement when he heard it in his own ears instead of his mind, and it practically burst past his lips the second time.

"I've got a date!" _With Arthur!_ Alfred grinned, nearly bouncing out the doors with a laugh as he strode confidently towards his dorm, not seeing much as he was muttering happily to himself in a low mantra.

"I've got a date, got a date, got a daaaate with—Oof!" He ran into someone standing outside the (often) open door to his suite, jostling his glasses and he automatically jerked a hand up to readjust them, backing up a step and blinking up at the man he'd run into. His smile didn't diminish—it just _wouldn't!_—as he recognized the guy. Saluting with two fingers signaling out smartly from the side of his head, he proceeded to greet the Russian, tone still lit amiably.

"Oh, heya, Nick! Sorry 'bout that, I was a little—" Warm violet eyes bore down on him as a sweet smile spread out over the taller student's face.

"Oh, _nyet, nyet_… A date is a good reason, _da?_" To that, heat darted out over his cheeks. It was obvious his muttering hadn't been as low as he'd thought it'd been, then! He laughed, raising a hand to rub at the back of his head, expression sheepish.

"Ha, ha, yeah!" His face felt a little warmer all of the sudden, and he looked down, still smiling a little. "Well, I've been goin' after this one for a while, so—"

"I am happy for you, comrade~" The cream-haired man's voice was light and fluffy, but lilted a little in curious surprise. "Ah! What are those?" Alfred blinked at the cutely pointing finger, following it to the scones tucked against his side. He opened his mouth to— "Gifts from your lady friend? Ehe, how lucky you are~!" At that last statement, though, his face burned again and he tried to laugh it off.

"Huh? Oh, no way, it's not—" The younger student waved a palm in front of himself, shaking his head as the Russian tilted his head and blinked in what could only be thought.

"Ah? It is _not _a lady friend, then~?" Damn it! He just _knew_ his face glowing bright pink, at this point! Not one to shy away from truth, though, he just muttered his response a little bashfully, trying to push past his floor mate's bulk with a rough shoulder-bump as he crossed the door threshold.

"Um, no, not really—" He wasn't afraid of it, just a little gunshy around people he didn't know well. Couldn't really tell who the religious wackos were, at a glance, after all. He'd almost made it, when a strong grip hooked around his elbow over the sleeve of his leather jacket. His heart froze. Oh crap. Damn. Maybe in Russia they really—

"Oh! How fortunate Alfred is~! Good men are hard to find around here!" That jolly chirp stopped him dead in his tracks, and he blinked, glancing over in hesitant amazement. Nikolai was beaming at him over his scarf and own shoulder, respectively, barely-visible mouth quirked into another of those delighted little smiles. After another moment the Russian released him, lively light plum eyes opening again as the broad-framed student patted his shoulder.

"You will have to tell me how it goes! Perhaps if it doesn't work out, Alfred would like to have a date with me, instead, _da_~?" He'd been about to say something, but it only came out as a surprised half-stutter of a sound as his suspicions were confirmed—_the guy'd said it_ _so casually!_—and the brunet fought to reestablish a grin on his currently utterly-astonished face.

"H-Hey, th—You—" The taller boy smiled at him innocently, as though he'd _not just said that._

"Regretfully, I have studying to do. Have fun on your date~!" And with that, the Russian turned around completely and strode off, humming a little tune.

The American stood frozen for another moment—before shaking his head with a laugh and walking to his door, throwing it open with a cheery announcement.

"Hey, you were right, Gil! There _are_ lotsa gay guys here in the city~!"

: : :

At the end of his shift he returned from his usual trip to the loo to find—much to his surprise—an envelope waiting for him in front of the metal blinds he'd drawn down not minutes ago. The Brit's brows creased together as he strode forward, plucking it and turning it over.

_To Arthur_

His heart skipped a beat, and his expression softened into one of pleasant confusion. Why would Alfred bother leaving a—oh, wait, no. That handwriting was much too neat to be that damn yank's. It didn't match the messily-scrawled script he'd seen, before. Frowning once more, he tore open the top part, pulling out a small letter. It was just the size of the envelope, actually—it looked as though it had been ripped to fit.

_Loose information spreads quickly. Terminate your rendezvous. He is mine._

His fingers tightened over the paper, crinkling it slightly before he folded it smartly in half and stuck it in his pocket, marching resolutely onward to retrieve his coat and knapsack. The blond refused to glance around suspiciously as he left, although he was scowling in consternation as to just _who_ he'd managed to wind up to receive such a letter. The words played again and again—written in their careful, meticulously exact cursive—over his thoughts as he headed to the library until he stubbornly thrust them from his mind, not allowing the threatening message to alter his usual routine.

He didn't bother himself to wonder how the bastard—whoever he was—knew of his plans.

: : :

"Did he call it a date? If he didn't call it a date, it's not a date." Alfred cast a frown over to his room mate, the albino currently reclined atop his bed, on his back with his arms folded behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. The younger guy tugged lightly on the collar of his shirt, mumbling quietly as he looked away.

"Well, no…" There was a bark of a laugh and Gilbert sat up on his elbows, grinning upside-down towards him.

"See! Can't go assumin'. 'sides, I think ol' Nick's got the hots for you—" The American's cheeks flushed angrily, and he turned, shouting at the other student so lazily occupying his mattress.

"C-C'mon! This isn't about Nick! It's Arthur! D-Dammit…" Peering at himself in the mirror out of the corner of his eye, he ran a hand back through his hair in frustration, then glancing down at his clothes. His usual leather jacket, jeans and a white T-shirt. "You really sure this is alright? I feel like I should dress up more…" There was a snort, and blue eyes snapped down to meet annoyed red ones.

"What are you, a girl? If the guy didn't say it's a date you don't want to over-dress, idiot!" The German made a shooing motion with a flippant hand, once again grinning. "_Geht dich!_ You're gonna be late! Don't wanna make him wait, right?" He reached up, then, snatching either side of the American's leather collar and dragging him down. "You might not get your kiss~!" The white-haired boy pursed his lips out, making kissy sounds as he pulled Alfred a few teasing inches closer. "_Von Artur, ja?_ _Du möchtest auf deinem Mund einen hot Kuss~?_" Puffing in annoyance, the brunet quickly shoved him away, cheeks aglow as sapphire eyes narrowed behind his spectacles.

"S-Shut up, Gil! Stop it with the German!" He just huffed as the albino only guffawed obnoxiously, the older guy at last releasing his jacket and dropping back-first onto the bed. "I'm goin'!"

_"Ja, ja! Viel Spaß~!"_

He just shook his head, sticking his hands in the pockets of his jacket as Gilbert's loud laughter permeated the suite's hallway, all too thankful when he stepped into the elevator and couldn't hear it anymore. The American glanced up at the ceiling, smiling a hint nervously. Well… at least it meant that that dream had been just that. A _dream_. After all, Arthur wouldn't have wanted to see him again if he'd _actually _molested him. He really just had an overactive imagination, was all. Alfred's cheeks blossomed pink as he realized he was tugging absently at the red wristband tucked under his jacket's left cuff and he frowned. Releasing it, he stuck his hands in his pockets once more and glanced down, kicking the toe of a sneaker against the diamond-patterned steel beneath it. Gil had a point, he shouldn't expect anything—because it wasn't a date.

_Right?_

: : :

He wasn't nervous, really. His fingers were just a bit restless, playing against each other like that as he stood beside the usual tree bordering the large field. He shivered slightly in his coat. The weather really was getting colder, here. There was no reason to be nervous, though, it wasn't as though this were a date. The yank simply owed him for those scones, yesterday. Yes, that was all. Really, it wasn't so hard to fathom, was it? It's not as though he would suddenly owe the boy for anything, afterward. The Brit nodded to himself. No, of course not! This was merely a good time to bring up that… that thing that had occurred, on Halloween. His cheeks colored. Er. Yes. To be a good friend, no doubt. It wouldn't be right of him to keep it to himself. No. Not really. Not that he was curious as to why— Oh, certainly not! Never. What did he care what the yank did, really? He didn't. Not at all.

His inner ramblings were interrupted by a loud yell and he lifted his gaze to spy the idiot American waving from his spot atop the hill. He scowled as the boy slid down the bank, then striding over and folding his arms over his chest, grumpily.

"Well, at last! I've been waiting here for—" The plonker just laughed, rubbing a hand behind his head as he gazed sheepishly towards him.

"Yeah, sorry, something sorta came up, last minute… So!" Suddenly the brunet was all business, hands on his hips as he grinned towards the Brit confidently, blue eyes sparkling lightly behind their lenses. He forced himself not to pay too much attention to that, though.

"Where to? If we wanna get rid of my meal passes, Market Commons is probably our best bet, but—" The foreigner took a moment to reflect, fingers curling thoughtfully in the pockets of his coat as he refreshed the memory in his mind. Arthur hadn't really ever been—not rich enough for the uni's exorbitant meal plans—and so had only heard of the all-you-can-eat buffet-style dining hall. After another moment he nodded, shifting to his companion's side and past it, striding off towards the taller of the two campus landmarks and in the general direction of the decided-upon cafeteria.

"That's fine. Let's be off." He soundly forbade this lunch from being awkward. Really, it was all about determination. In relative silence they strode along, over a few concrete sidewalks and patches of grass, stairs and ramps and through doors, and more stairs, until they were settled at the front of the Commons. Alfred flashed his ID and motioned towards the Brit who managed a slightly-forced polite smile towards the black woman seated behind the register. She cast them a barely-interested glance before swiping the yank's ID a second time and sending them through.

The inside was huge, he realized, having never been there before. It was a basement area, entirely underground. He hadn't really thought of how much ground the floor above it (home to Campus Central as well as the largest student mailroom on campus, and the entryways, laundry and exercise room for residents of the three huge, hulking residence dorms that jutted into the sky in easily over twenty floors) sprawled over, until now. Right as they walked in there was a long grill with a wide array of fried foods along it—if he glanced to his left he spotted a circular one with in the middle, and yet another long grill against the wall on the side they'd come in on. If he strained, he could see pizza and pasta beneath the sneeze-guards, sitting on counters that separated the student population from the hard-working range monkeys. He didn't have too much time to assess the area, though—and the right side he'd not even had a chance to glance at!—before he was dragged away by a merry American tugging on his arm.

"Ha, you look like this is your first time! I'll admit it's pretty daunting at first, but it's really just a huge buffet!" Alfred grinned at him, glancing over his shoulder as he pulled him over to a small booth that was just big enough to house two people.

"You go get what you want, and bring it back here. I've already paid, so you can just pick whatever." The lad released him at last, shrugging off his jacket and plopping it onto one of the seats—claiming it. The younger chap hooked his thumbs into his jeans' front pockets as he waited, watching as Arthur carefully extricated himself from his own coat, folding it over his arm before placing it on the seat, as well. When he looked up, Alfred grinned, and one hand began to gesture a bit, excitedly.

"Over back there is the salad bar and the Mexican area where you can get quesadillas." He waved somewhere behind Arthur's head, and the Brit turned to look. Indeed, there was yet _another_ counter tucked away opposite where they'd come in. Lord, was the word 'excessive' in the American English dictionary, at _all_?

"In the middle here is some Chinese—fried rice and noodles and stuff like that." Ah, so that was what that round grill he'd initially spotted was for. His friend waved a hand towards the counter near where they'd come in, then in a wider sweep as they began to walk. He followed after a hesitant moment.

"Pizza's over there—over here, the 'meal of the day', whatever that is, and burgers and chicken nuggets and French fries and the makings for waffles and breakfast stuff." Alfred took a breath, and by this point the Brit was beginning to gape, a little overwhelmed at the sheer gluttony of this place. No wonder so many yanks were so overweight! The brunet was pointing elsewhere, again.

"On the right side, over there, there's another grill that sometimes has peanut-butter-and-jelly sand—"

"Jam." Alfred stopped in his rant, blinking at him. The Brit pinkened a little and cast his gaze aside, a little embarrassed at the unthinking slip but unable to do much about it, now.

"Huh?"

"It's 'jam', you insufferable American twat, now what were you saying?" He snapped the response, growing more irritated by the moment as the loon just continued to stare at him before letting out a laugh and clapping him on the shoulder. He jumped, and jerked his eyes up to glare emerald fury towards the idiot, shoving off his hand with a silent snub as the guy sniggered and resumed his 'tour'.

"Haha, Brit-speak! So weird, man. Anyway—yeah, over there there's sandwiches, and then on the other counter there's the makings for grilled sandwiches, and some cakes and cookies and—"

"Biscuits." He muttered the correction without thinking, again, but this time Alfred appeared oblivious and merely continued on.

"—hot water for coffee—" He winced, thinking of the beverage. Really, why had the yanks gone for that horrid stuff, at all? Tea was so much better.

"—and around that corner there's a freezer with ice cream." The boy was almost leering at him, and he mustered a formidable frown that did nothing to lessen it—bollocks.

"There're beverage stands, dishes and utensils all over the place, and I'm sure you'll be able to find the spot where they're returned." Just in case, Alfred pointed past his nose and the Brit wrinkled it, sparing a droll glance towards the multi-story conveyer belt that worked in a continuous anti-clockwise loop, stacked and dirtied dishes disappearing past the corner and into—presumably—the washing room.

"Yes, yes, it's not that complicated, I'll find my way." He shooed the hovering yank away, but the bloke just laughed at him before hooking his arms behind his head and wandering off.

"Don't forget where the table is, Artie~!" He huffed, turning to scrutinize the huge buffet surrounding him. The Brit sighed, pinching his nose, before going off to find the least-fattening area of the large dining hall. There _had _to be something here that wasn't drenched in grease or sugar!

: : :

Arthur was seated with a moderately-sized salad, as well as a few rolls on a plate beside him. Fresh fruit or vegetables were expensive, after all, and if he could get them technically for free he wouldn't pass up the opportunity. Although hot water and a mug were easy enough to locate, he hadn't managed to find a tea bag and so instead settled sulkily for a plastic glass full of milk. He could have tea when he got home, he supposed. Across from him, there was a plate with a double-stacked burger stuffed to bursting with tomato, lettuce, and cheese. Beside it was a generous cluster of chips. He eyed them warily, slightly tempted by the familiar, slightly-salty odor they emitted. He'd spied them, before, but passed by without another glance, firmly not allowing himself to give into temptation. When they were so innocuously seated across from him, though, left unprotected and— Stealing a quick glance around, he reached out and nicked one from the side of the plate, nibbling at the end and smiling slightly when the steam from the sliced-and-cooked potato rose pleasantly into his mouth. He finished it with not a moment to spare, for soon he spied that damn yank making his way across the room with a big grin and another plate to match. The Brit creased his brows together, sparing a sideways glance to the untouched burger and chips across from him. What on earth would the boy have, now? Surely one large burger like that was enough for a good nosh?

"Hey, Artie! Heh, went for the rabbit food, eh?" He cast a glare towards the stupid div, reaching for his milk as he turned away with a sniff.

"At least it's better than—" The boy had plopped his second plate on the tabletop, sliding into the booth and blinking towards him curiously as he trailed off. The blond stared at his companion's second plate—this one stocked with two narrow slices of pizza, a few biscuits and a slice of chocolate cake-hiding a disapproving frown at all the carbohydrates and sugar behind the rim of his own glass. He took a sip as his calculating gaze observed the fizzy drink bubbling mildly on the other's side of the table, as well.

"Huh? What?" Americans were such calorie gluttons, he thought to himself, only shaking his head as he set his milk back on the table.

"No, nothing." There was a bit of silence as they both took to their respective meals, and he discreetly watched as the boy managed to barrel his way through the entirety of the profoundly _un_balanced meal. He sniffed, suddenly rather proud of his—what had that blasted yank called it? Ah. Yes. 'Rabbit food'… Really, now. Why were so many people over here practically _allergic_ to eating well? Honestly! As the silence went on, he found himself a tad nervous. Soon the lettuce he was poking his fork at was less abundant, and he glanced up, noting that the boy had foregone half of his chips but completely decimated the burger, and was well into his second biscuit by now, the chocolate cake sitting innocently amidst the small smudges of tomato and crumbs falling around it. Alfred's second glass of whatever soft drink he'd initially procured was half-gone, as well. Wrinkling his nose, Arthur again reached for his (still original glass of) milk, taking a small sip before placing it back and staring firmly at his nearly-gone salad, poking at it a bit more before giving up. He slid it aside, taking one of the rolls and breaking off a small piece. Setting the rest of the roll down on the plate beside it, he then reached for a conveniently-available packet of butter. With the knife in his right hand, he neatly scooped out a small dollop and smeared it over the slightly-dry insides. Really, this was American food at its worst!

"Well." Alfred looked up, blinking at him and he kept his eyes firmly on the piece of bread in his hand, taking a small bite before setting it down and folding his hands together in his lap, at last gathering his mettle as he pressed a serious gaze towards the other student.

"Huh?"

"I've something to talk to you about." He paused, nodding and losing a bit of his nerve, glancing off once more but keeping his hands folded neatly in place.

"About, er—about the other day." He tried a smile, but it felt a little flat as the yank only continued to stare at him, waiting for him to continue. Lifting his napkin from his lap, he pressed it over his mouth with a quiet mumble, eyes sliding away once more.

"Ah. At the party. You… erm." He knew his face was heating, god blast it all!

"You tried to—er. Snog me." He went on, hurriedly, not daring to glance up. "N-Not that I think any less of you! Of course, you were drunk and I completely understand but I couldn't simply refrain from informing you of it—because then, what sort of person would I be?—and certainly it's not that worrisome, not that I liked it mind you, but you really should be aware of how forward you are after you've gotten yourself sloshed and I—" A nervous titter from the other side of the table interrupted his babbling and Arthur blinked up, lips lighting in a thin, crookedly uncomfortable smile as wide azure stared at him out of a pale face. The American had slouched forward, one elbow resting on the table as he stared at his friend as though he'd just spat out the correct measurements for Big Ben in metric, with its tourist statistics and all.

"Uh. I—wait, I—I—_what?_" The Brit winced inwardly, but managed to steel his smile, keeping it frozen on his face.

"Ah. You." He gestured towards the American, politely refraining from actually pointing. "Attempted to lay a kiss—" Here the blond motioned back towards himself, again, cheeks heating quietly as he again averted his eyes off to the side. "On me. But, as I've mentioned, it really doesn't matter! I only thought you should be aware of it, it doesn't make me think any less of you except to perhaps avoid you in case you've been heavily drinking, but honestly—"

"Aha. Ha, ha! N-No way, man, I couldn't've…" He was interrupted again, and could only watch helplessly as the yank began to emit a few forced chortles, those too-wide sapphire eyes still devouring him in shock from behind their lenses. The lad shook his head, running a hand through his fringe as those eyes—thank heaven!—hastily snapped to the side, a healthy blush stealing up onto the younger man's face. "N-N-No way… I thought I'd just dreamed that—" Taken aback at that mutter, he blinked smartly, brows furrowing, angling down towards one another.

"Wot?" At that one word, Alfred seemed to register him again and the guy's head shot up, looking once more like a deer in headlights.

"U-Uh, no I—" His own gaze was likely widening as well, and the Brit lifted his napkin a bit higher, trying to cover at least one cheek's redness as he glanced away again, his mind working quickly. I-If Alfred was reacting like this, then it could only be… O-Oh. Then—then perhaps he hadn't been wrong?

"H-H-Hey, Artie, I'm really sorry. I, uh, I don't even really remember that night, other than—" Perhaps the boy really was—

"Y-Ya know? Just that you were wearin' that, um, that really awesome angel costume and—"

"Blow me." The Brit breathed it, voice yet shell-shocked, eyes still focused elsewhere and mind practically bowled-over with this new realization—one that sent the pits of his stomach into warm convulsions and flooded his chest with an old emotion. To be wanted 'that way' by someone was a truly rare occurrence for someone like him, to be sure, and he— He heard a strangled noise from across the table just after his stunned, half-murmured remark, though, and immediately lifted his gaze. Those blue eyes were almost comically wide and—wait. Arthur blinked at the expression on his friend's face, utterly flummoxed as to where it had come from.

"_W-What _did you just say?" Alfred croaked the inquiry in a hissed whisper after a moment of merely staring, his cheeks rosy and the whites of his eyes all-too-visible, so it seemed his pupils were mere pinpricks of black within the sclera. The Brit blinked, as well, flushing in seeming response to the other's question before he raised a hand, waving it about in the air as though to dismiss whatever had been said.

"N-Nothing." He shook his head, coughing neatly into a fisted hand to try to regain some composure. "Well. I. Er." He glanced up, forcing another smile to try to dispel the tension. "Really, now, is it that big of a deal? I mean, after all I'm sure we've all done some things we're not proud of when—" The end of an index finger was suddenly thrust in his face and he gaped, then glared around it, opening his mouth.

"Y-You tried to kiss me, too!" The poor chap's face continued to burn brightly, but it seemed he'd regained enough of his mental functions to say at least this, and Arthur's annoyed would-be tirade (on the other's lack of manners) turned into a gape as his cheeks flushed a brighter carmine than was likely healthy.

"W-_Wot?_" It was, perhaps, more of a squeak than the calmly dignified query he'd been aiming for, but there was no help for it. He cleared his throat, attempting proper speech, once more. "I-I can assure you, I never, I—"

"No, no!" Alfred leaned over the table, waving the hand of the elbow leaned against it impatiently in the air. The look in his eyes gone from scared to eager—goddamn bloody _hell_, what was he so eager about, all of the sudden?—and the blond reflexively leaned back, emerald widening further as he began to lift his hands from his lap. Just in case he'd need to shove the boy back into his own seat.

"No! You remember—oh, wait, no you don't—never mind—but, but!" Those cerulean eyes were locked on his own, a broad grin sneaking onto the corners of the lad's mouth, stretching it upward as he leaned forward earnestly on his forearm.

"That night! Y'know, with the vodka and stuff, right? On the bench, while we were waitin' for the cab to get back to your place! You tried to kiss me!" Thankfully, the chap had marginally lowered his tone for that last sentence, bright blue smiling into him. The poor Brit blushed only further, sneaking a glance to the side as he dropped his hands to twist the napkin lying over his lap. C-Certainly he didn't remember much from that night, but—but he'd_ really_ tried to—with _Alfred_, and—(the boy wasn't put off by that)?

"Oh, man, this is so cool! I can't believe I actually—and you—Ehe~!" The stupid kid laughed, and he sent a half-hearted glare towards the infuriating bloke. All of it was too much, too close, too embarrassing all at once! In annoyance, he stood, snatching his plates from the table and stalking off towards the conveyer belt, needing to sort through things for a moment. He heard a yell behind him, but focused on his thoughts, first. Right. Temporary solution. Perhaps the loo? Yes, he couldn't afford to make a scene here. Yes, that would work.

"Hey, Art, I—" He practically threw the dishes onto the lowest conveyer belt, whipping around and brushing roughly past Alfred, snarling a single word, fully Americanized so the blooming fool wouldn't misunderstand.

"_Bathroom_."

: : :

He couldn't be in here for long, he knew that, so he glanced at his watch as he entered before promptly steering himself towards a stall, stepping in and locking the door, and collapsing into a curiously-available chair, putting his head in his hands. …The handicapped stall, then. With a sink and kitchen roll dispenser of its own, as well as a chair. Lovely. He breathed against the warmth of his own palms, moisture rising to drift over his red face in the closed space.

_Now then, old chap, let's sit and think this one through._ He nodded to himself.

_He—so. We've both almost snogged one another, correct? _Another nod.

_ Yes, well. That hardly counts as dating, doesn't it? Oh, lord, what've I gotten myself into, this time. _He groaned softly to himself, shaking his forehead against the supporting palms, heels pressing into his eye sockets.

_ Now, then. That bloke's certainly not against it, but…_ He paused, hesitating. The history of his failed attempts at romance washed over him and he lifted his head from his hands, staring blankly at the dirty floor of the W.C. he currently occupied. He was so tired of being hurt. So tired of pouring himself into people that only left him, in the end. Green eyes slid half-shut, growing hazed with memories.

Ooadira. Ivie. Aadi. Samir. Mumbi.

So many heartbreaks. Certainly, it was expected at his age to have gone through quite a few, but… it seemed to be his unfortunate tendency to believe they would all last.

Ooadira, that immigrant from Libya who'd been in London as long as she could recall. She'd been a year older than him and they'd passed a couple of sweet words, but neither divulged much. It'd been his first—albeit a mockery of—relationship, as he liked to recall. That was five years ago.

Ivie, from Nigeria. She'd lasted a good six months before he'd begun to cheat on her (emotionally, never physically!) with Aadi and had, guilt-ridden, broken it off not a few weeks into the affair. He still felt awful about it. The lass had been a year younger than him, and in his absent-mindedness he'd bloody broken up with her _on her birthday. _He made sure to never forget any important dates, after that.

Aadi, then. Oh, Aadi, originally from India. He wondered how the chap was getting on, now. His heart ached and he repressed the sniffle that wanted to burst out, burying his head in his hands once more. Aadi, who'd liked Arthur before they both even knew they'd liked boys. Aadi, who was the first of his doomed romantic partners that he'd started to be serious with and was actually close to his age. Did that make him a pedophile, that he tended to prefer those younger than him? He liked to think it was an issue of comfort. But, yes, Aadi… three years off-and-on, where they just simply clicked and yet— Aadi was in a relationship, and couldn't admit being gay to himself, much less his family, and… And he'd sacrificed so much, for that boy. Pining, and waiting, and knowing that he would never be closer to Aadi than the lad's girlfriend—oh, it'd been terrible. Not that he'd admitted that, back then. They'd parted ways, for a while, and two months later Aadi came back, begging and asking for forgiveness but not to try again. No, that time Arthur had made the mistake, had tried to acquiesce and regain some of what they'd lost, but—the hurt was too deep on his heart. He'd ended up too closed-off, too afraid of being hurt, to let Aadi in, again. No. And so they'd parted ways, once more, only to come back together for a few months before Arthur would leave him for another chance at Samir.

Samir. Samir, the Sudanese boy two years younger than him—a minor, seventeen when Arthur was nineteen—who he'd come upon while he and Aadi weren't speaking. Samir, who he'd dated for six months—always mindful of the age difference, always respectful—before the lad got bored of him and tossed him away like a used toy. Samir, who he'd mind-fucked himself into oblivion for, who he'd saved and scrimped for in order to send him only the best Christmas presents and a dozen roses on Valentine's Day two years in a row, as well as his birthday. Samir, who he'd spoiled so much as a poor uni student could. Samir, who he'd devotedly trailed after and supported with a smile even as he watched him go on and continue to have shallow fucks (never with him, though, he'd not allowed the lad to go there). Watched, and pined, and ached for that one day Samir would realize that there was someone standing beside him who wouldn't leave. A year later. A _year_, and the bloody bastard had seemed to fall for him, again. For two months. Two months, and then he was left high and dry, once more. Not even Aadi wanted him, then. Not even Aadi, who had long come to terms about his sexual orientation by then—partly due to Arthur, he felt with a small, tiny twinge of pride—but was wisely wary by now and not about to let Arthur hurt him, again.

Pass to a year after that, disregard that short scuffle of a relationship which lasted about a month with no one especially memorable, and then there was Mumbi, from Kenya. Mumbi. Who he'd dared to try harder with, who he'd bought flowers for on their first date and who had embraced him with the cry of "You're so sweet!" on that occasion, making his cheeks tint pink as he patted her back awkwardly with the one hand not holding the small (three-rose; pink, white and lavender) bouquet. Mumbi, who he'd actually taken to writing little poems for on notes that he'd give her on each of their dates. Their two, ill-fated dates—and the last poem the last time he'd managed to see her, and tried to patch things up on either side, attempting to kill any future awkwardness by facing it head-on while it was still stinging and fresh. Mumbi, who he'd managed to see that last time, and after that run to the bus stop so hard he wheezed and coughed and nearly couldn't breathe, although he'd never been and wasn't asthmatic. He'd caught the bus home—he'd been so afraid he would've missed it and the next one didn't come for another hour, thus the reason he had run out of there like the hounds of hell were on his heels—while trying not to cry to himself. Trying not to admit that his first tentative attempt in a fucking _year_ was a complete failure that only made him hide under the brim of his hat in the late night—or early morning, at any rate it was after midnight—ride, from the other two passengers and the driver who seemed to be the only souls awake at that ungodly hour.

God, he was such a horrible person, wasn't he? He breathed into his palms, breaths sharp and ragged, but he tried to keep them quiet. God. Horrible. Cheating, and dumping, and turning around and practically begging for more chances with those he knew, because he was too afraid of trying it all with someone he _didn't_ know. God, so bleeding _weak_ just to be wanted for who he was. But it didn't matter, did it? Who he was was never good enough to keep anyone around, and eventually they all left him to pick up the pieces afterward. And if they didn't, he knew _he_ would. He knew he'd leave them after a time, paranoid that he'd slip and wouldn't be able to control himself and damage those dearest people beyond any repair. Everyone was better-off if they just stayed away. So he yelled, and he cursed. And he manipulated them and acted like a general arse after every break-up. It never failed. They would be sorry at first, then grow angry at his behavior and leave him utterly alone. It was brilliant, really. They were angry, and so spared any sadness. It was the best way to go about these things. The only consolation he'd found, from any of his long, sad string of relationships, was that he'd managed to make Aadi realize—despite his upbringing and strict religion—that he was gay. It was his one saving grace, and never failed to make him feel a swell of pride in his broken heart. Even if he never met the boy again, at least he could be attributed to helping him admit the truth to himself. At least that—

And now, here. And Alfred. The infuriating, _stupid _boy who wouldn't leave him alone. Who was attracted to him. Who'd tried to kiss him, while drunk. Whose eyes were bright and clear and god, it was so wrong because the boy was at least three years younger than him and barely out of high school and still a freshman and curse it all, _curse _his weak, soft, selfish heart but he wanted to just give in and slump into those warm arms and eyes and caress that face and—

He shook his head, rubbing at his eyes. No! No. He'd learned his lesson long ago. He'd learned to appreciate what he had while he had it, because it would always leave. He'd learned, and tried to keep to the old axiom of "loving as though one has never been hurt", but—but, by now—he was perhaps too old, and seen too much in the four years he'd been dating? A loner in primary and secondary school, he hadn't started dating until he'd entered university—god, was it only four years? Four years of all that, and… and he was just tired. Arthur was just exhausted by it all. What was the point, again? He would watch the world, see it pass by—especially so in America—with all these shallow relationships and only shake his head. But what right did he have to judge? At least those mindless souls had someone to lie beside them at night. It might only last a few weeks, but that should count for something, shouldn't it? Shaking his head again, the Brit pushed himself to a stand, then strode over to the sink, running the water and leaning down to splash his face. He sighed, bracing his hands on either side of the sink blindly, and blowing a few loose droplets from his lips as his eyes creaked open, locking on himself in the mirror and blinking a few times to clear the water from his eyelashes.

He _looked_ tired.

Giving a defiant, angry glare to the image there, he straightened, grabbing a towel and drying his face with quick, hard rubs. No, none of that self-pity. He didn't have the time, and this certainly wasn't the place. Besides, he wouldn't just _break down._ Grin and bear it, wasn't it, here? Keep a stiff upper lip?

Yes, that's right.

That's _right_.

It wouldn't get to him, as he refused to allow it more than a few passing, depressing thoughts. Best keep all that crap buried, down in the depths where it belonged. Yes. Right way to go about it, really. Nothing could be done, anyway. About-facing, he stomped over towards the door, unlocking it and glancing at himself in the mirror above the line of sinks. He lifted a hand to pat his hair down—a futile effort, anyway—and cocked a half-hearted smile at himself. Yes, well. Best he could do, right? Yes. He had homework to do, anyway. Should be off. As he stepped to the door, he checked his watch—ah, it'd only been about ten minutes. Good, then. He could formulate an excuse to Alfred and—

"Oof! Hey!" He blinked up, cheeks coloring as he recognized the bloke he'd just run into, glancing off to the side and continuing on as though he didn't particularly care.

"Watch where you're standing, you stupid pillock." He sniffed the insult snobbishly, making for the table with the taller chap right on his heels. Alfred slid into the seat across from him, but Arthur merely stretched to take his coat from its folded-up place against the wall on his own side of the booth, tugging it out and unfolding it neatly, keeping his eyes on the task at hand. "Well. I've work to do, so while this was a right-lovely luncheon—we really should do it again, sometime—" _In hell_, he silently added. "I'm afraid I shall have to take my leave." With that, he jerked the front flaps of his coat so they sat straight and began walking out.

"Hey!" He picked up the pace, managing to get past the registers at the entrance before the sodding prat managed to snag his elbow, forcibly halting his forward motion. The Brit glared fiercely over his shoulder towards the American, noting vaguely that the boy looked mildly surprised before it simmered down into anger.

"Unhand me, you—"

"What the hell, Arthur!" The blond stopped, surprised, before furrowing his intimidating brows together, once more.

"I beg your—" The yank whipped out a hand, gesturing angrily at the air as blue eyes narrowed down towards him.

"You suddenly got all PMS-y on me, dude. I thought you were having fun?" He straightened, glowering.

"_Don't_ call me—" The stupid lad continued on, blathering needlessly and his patience was beginning to wear.

"Like hell I won't! What's your problem, eh? You got an issue with gays? With guys who aren't afraid of loving other guys? Huh? Is that what they tell you in Britain, that it's _wrong_?" The blond glared at him, beginning to take offense at the other's words and opening his mouth, indignant.

"I have no such—"

"Then what's the problem, huh?" Frustrated blue was right in his vision, then, and he frowned, leaning back and sending a cool response.

"I simply do not find you attractive. You are not my type._ Kindly_ release my arm." He spat the last comment, spinning around and out of the other's loosened grasp to continue on his way up the stairs to the first level and the exit. He heard footsteps behind him but ignored them, instead intent on making a run for it so soon as they hit level ground. He would have, really, but a strong hand wrapped around his elbow once more and dragged him off to a dark corner, hidden between one of the walls and a vending machine. Before he knew it he was pressed up against that dingy corner, a hand palming the area next to one of his ears while a digit jutted into his face. He looked up, and the American's face could only be described as boiling in fury and aggravation. He opened his mouth.

"No! No, I don't want to hear another word, Arthur. It's all bullshit. _'You're not my type'?_ Gimme a break, that's the oldest line in the book." He leaned closer, and the Brit soundly kept his scowl on his face, not giving any ground by shrinking into the corner like a frightened mole.

"Well, I apologize, but that's the truth." He huffed, trying to push past the other's taller frame. "Now if you'll excuse—"

"Dammit, Arthur." The American had leaned down, hissing it into his ear and he shuddered, involuntarily, eyes going wide as they locked on nothing somewhere beyond Alfred's shoulder, the Brit's real attention quite obviously trained on the person currently pinning him to the wall. They were, mercifully, still out of sight of the bustling students only a few meters away. That mouth moved, lips brushing against his hastily-reddening audit with another whisper and he shivered again, eyes closing and head tipping back some to try to escape the feathery heat.

"I know you feel the same, you fucking liar. Why else wouldn't you have just left me there when I tried that, huh? Why would you let me almost kiss you if I didn't matter, yeah? Why would you have even bothered to take me back to my room if you didn't care?" He had gasped at the first of those lines, breaths growing quick with panic as his sight returned, madly shifting here and there, anywhere but on the American's face as one sure hand trailed deft fingers over his cheek, and down toward his chin—

"H-How can you—recollect what—" There was a gentle press of lips to his temple and he started, a hand coming up to try to swat the tosser's face away. There was no luck to be had, though, as it was caught in a hard grip—not particularly painful, but unyielding—and he scrunched his eyes shut as the lips again ghosted over his ear.

"I wasn't _that_ drunk, Art. I've got more of a tolerance than you do, I still remember—" The boy ducked his head, breathed warmth against his neck with a hint of a laugh in his voice. "Hey, right? 'You're m' angel~?' Ha, ha…" There was the chortle, then, smooth and warm and he felt a tremble rake up his spine at the close contact. "You looked really good in that costume, y'know." The Brit stopped, swallowing, and closed his eyes, leaning back on the wall behind as he sorted his thoughts. A few moments passed, and the yank's grip on his hand relaxed. He let it fall, then opened his eyes quietly, tipping his head and training his sight on the vending machine beside them that blocked the pair from view in their dark corner.

"Alfred. I cannot date you." He stated it simply, allowing his gaze to fall shut once more as the boy pressed only closer, a warm palm against his cheek.

"_Why?_ I know you feel the same way I do, you've gotta feel it too—"

"Why are you so sure of that? Shouldn't what I want play a part in this, too?" The lad fell quiet, at that, and for this he chanced a glance up, smiling slightly and raising a hand to pat the arm of the palm yet splayed against the wall beside him. He tipped his head, pulling that lop-sided, unnatural-feeling smile a hint tighter. "If I don't _want_ to date you, I shouldn't have to." He lidded his eyes, then, casting them away, voice echoing out deadly soft and precise. "Or would you rather force me to hate you, hm?"

The boy flinched from him as though burned, and when he peered back he saw a stricken expression that he absolutely concurred did not go straight to his heart. Fixing his clothes with a few prim movements, the Brit stepped around the motionless brunet, offering a final remark.

"I shouldn't think so. Good lad. Well. Cheers." To that, he stuck his hands in the pockets of his coat and headed for the nearest exit. As he stepped out into the cold November air, shivering slightly and starting for his apartment, he couldn't help but think what a welcome change it would be not to have that insufferable nitwit mucking up his mailroom shift, any longer.

Really, that was all. Perhaps he'd finally have some peace, after soundly rejecting the other boy and making it perfectly clear where he stood. Because, really. It would've all ended badly, wouldn't it? Yes. Best spare the lad that agony, the utter agony of having to deal with his own odd little quirks, stunted communication skills and misguided attempts at gaining affection. Emerald eyes closed, for a moment. Yes. Really. It was the best decision he'd ever made, and he was proud he'd managed to be so selfless, for once. Not selfish, at all. Alfred would be free to go off and search for someone else to fill the craving in his heart, untainted by Arthur.

Yes, this was for the best.

Now. _Now,_ if only those shuddering, painfully familiar tingles would stop running up his arms and into his chest, settling there and throbbing with each heartbeat, he could completely forget about all this. After all, it was impossible to have your heart broken if nothing had even happened, yes? Yes. Utterly daft to even contemplate it being a possibility.

He told the small part of his mind that dubiously prodded at his rationalizations to look into putting into practice ways of _properly belting up!_

: : :

"Ah, _Avery_, I cannot believe that uncouth_ rosbif _rejected you so! Here, let us have a toast to love, to_ l'amour_, that you may one day find someone worthy of—"

"My name's _Alfred_, Francis, not _Avery_." He muttered, head still buried in his crossed arms as he lied on his stomach on his bed, the pillow stuffed under his chin. The Frenchman merely patted his clothed bicep, comfortingly.

"Now, now, the best you can hope for is to find another, _non?_ Perhaps someone who is not so insensitive as that silly Englishman~?" Here he jerked his head up, pulling away from the too-close cooing face of his RA with a frown.

"…Not helping, dude." The elegant man merely waved a hand, settling back in his seat with a calculating look, rubbing the small stubble on his chin. The American raised an eyebrow towards him.

"So, you ever gonna tell me how you got that bruise on your 'precious face'?" The blond winced, putting a delicate hand to the discolored spot on his cheek as he looked away with a dramatic sigh.

"Hmmm. Some things are best left unsaid, _mon ami._" There was a loud echo of obnoxious laughter at the door to the suite, then, and they both lifted their heads as Gilbert entered, gesturing to someone as he walked into the room backwards.

"And this is my room! Pretty awesome, right? Although—"

"Ah, _Gisil._" Alfred blinked. Was it him or had Francis' tone gone frosty? He chanced a glance out of the corner of his eye towards the man, and did indeed behold a rather sharp smile. The albino froze, turning around only to glare at the blond, his hands curling into fists at his sides. The German tried a grin, but it came off with more teeth than were strictly necessary.

"Fran. What're you doing here?" There was what seemed to be a little bob of dirty-blond behind what was Gil's outstretched—protective?—arm, and the American caught a glimpse of a pair of rounded glasses and a bouncy flyaway curl before he tipped his gaze back to his RA to see his response, brows raising a bit.

"It is my job to be sure the residents of this floor are content, _non?_ I am merely serving my duties as RA, after that _rosbif _so rudely spurned this young man's advances." Alfred noted that the Frenchman's eyes flicked over Gil's shoulder towards the person there, and that his expression immediately softened. "_Mattheu, excuser mon comportement irréfléchi. S'il vous plaît permettez-moi d'expliquer—"_

_ "S'il vous plaît ne rien dire de plus, Francis. Vous—" _It was a soft voice that glided effortlessly over the syllables and accents. It didn't quite lack Francis' confidence, but held it in a subtler tone, more subdued and stronger, almost. Something in the back of his mind told him it was familiar, but Alfred instead sat up a little, trying to get a better view of the stranger, who would have been well-hidden behind Gil's back—but for the fact he had stepped forward. Violet-blue eyes watched the Frenchman sadly from behind their lenses for a moment before another comment escaped, nearly a whisper in the still air. "_Vous avez déjà dit assez."_ It was only then that he noticed Gil had put a soft hand to the boy's shoulder, red eyes glaring soundly at the RA as Francis stood, gliding over and taking the boy's hand, lifting it whilst leaning down to place a kiss upon the back of it.

"_Mon petit chou, je suis désolé—" _The wavy-haired brunet carefully pulled his hand out of the other man's hold before his lips could touch, smiling quietly towards him in a slightly tired way that nonetheless indicated he would let it go no further.

_ "S'il vous plaît ne faites pas cela. __Je ne veux pas en entendre davantage._ _D'ailleurs, en ce moment nous sommes très impoli—" _Caught up in the unexpected drama, Alfred nonetheless noted when the guy's eyes flicked to him at that last sentence, and grinned reflexively at the attention, jumping off the bed to land in front of him.

"Heya! I'm Alfred! Pretty cool French you've got goin', there." He saw the guy tense, wide eyes watching him but only smiled warmly in response, firmly grabbing his hand to shake. "Didn't understand a word of it, but Gil does that to me with German, too, _so!"_ He spared a glare to his room mate and the white-haired guy snorted, putting his hands behind his head and striding over to flop back on his own bed.

"Hey, not _my _fault you're not awesome and didn't take German in high school. If you had you'd understand me!" To that he just shook his head, releasing the new guy's hand and hearing a shy murmur in response.

"It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Matthew." He grinned again, gesturing towards the chair vacated by Francis after he made his surprisingly un-dramatic exit and leaping to settle cross-legged atop his mattress.

"Mattie, huh? Cool! Take a seat, man." To that, though, he blinked and deflated a little, recalling how Francis had found him, before. He glanced away, and if Gil noticed he didn't say anything. There was a little concerned sound from the French-speaking guy, though, and the American lifted his head to try a bright smile. Mattie just frowned at him, eying him a moment more before shifting a bit to seat himself beside him on the bed. One foot tucked itself under the guy's thigh, the other dangling off the edge. The wavy-haired boy gave him a reassuring smile once he was situated, voice calm and soothing.

"Francis mentioned something about you being spurned…?"

_"What?"_ They both jumped, gazing wide-eyed towards Gil who had snapped up to a sitting position. Those red eyes were narrowed in annoyance. "That guy rejected you? No way! He was all over you last time, and at the party— Hey." That annoyed face dove into a baffled one, and a finger rose, indicating the both of them with a few side-to-side sways. The German's white brows descended, expression confused. "You—You both look… really alike. Like brothers, almost. Twins. You sure you're not related or something?" Mattie broke the silence with a bit of soft laughter, smiling pleasantly towards Gil before dropping his gaze to his lap, tugging lightly at the bottom of his red sweatshirt with a little high flush on his cheeks.

"Ah, no, Gilly, I only have an older sister." Something pulled at his mind, but Alfred beamed a moment later, laughing boisterously to cover up his moment of disquiet.

"Haha, yeah, Gil—and I'm an only child! Besides, we don't have the same last names, duh!" As though to reward him for that, Mattie chuckled softly and Alfred grinned towards him, nudging the guy with an elbow. For some reason he felt really comfortable around him—maybe because he was so quiet and unassuming? "Am I right, m' man? Although you seem like you'd make a pretty awesome brother." There was that little unidentified twinge, again, and his smile grew a little forced even as Mattie gazed back at him fondly. Apparently the relaxing vibe was mutual.

"Mm, perhaps. But what were you saying, earlier?" He sobered up at that, and looked down at his hands with a frown.

"Ah, just get on with it, Al. Tell us your 'dramatic tale of misery and woe'." He glared in Gil's general direction at the sarcastic comment, but didn't bother to lift his head, and just sighed after a moment, glancing off.

"Well… this—guy, that I've known for a little while. Um, he's really weird, but sorta cool, ya know?" He glanced up, seeking confirmation. The other man perched on his bed was watching him calmly with a patient smile. Glancing back down, he proceeded to relay the gist of the disastrous 'date', trying not to leave out any important points. After a few moments he glanced up again, and saw Mattie tapping his chin with his fingers, gaze averted and distant. Then he glanced towards him with a small smile.

"It… sounds to me as though he doesn't know what to do. Like he's been through a lot, eh? Like he… doesn't know how to trust people." He noted that Mattie cast a quiet glance towards Gil, and the American blinked.

"Oh?" The French-speaking student nodded, slowly curling the leg that'd hung over the edge to his chest, arms hooking around it as his tone grew thoughtful.

"It seems like… he probably knows what you're talking about, but doesn't want you to try. Because he's afraid you might succeed, yeah?" He blinked, again, frowning in thought.

"I… guess that makes sense…" Not really, but it did. Sort of. And Arthur was weird, anyway.

"I suppose it just depends on whether or not you want to prove to him that you mean it. But, you know, I don't know this person personally, so I'm not sure if—"

"No! No, you're totally right, Mattie!" He'd probably startled the guy when he'd jumped to his feet on the mattress, the poor bed frame creaking and groaning beneath him as he raised a fist in the air, but that didn't matter. "I can't give up, you're right!"

"W-Well I didn't say that, b-but—" The Canadian glanced towards his friend across the room, rather helplessly.

"You're wasting your time, he's off in that hero-fantasy-world of his again." The white-haired German's tone was flat, and he closed his eyes in utter disinterest. "But thanks for cheering him up, Mat. He's really annoying when he's depressed." To that, the timid boy smiled once more and slipped nimbly off of Alfred's bed to pad over to Gilbert's. When he got close enough, he raised a hand, hesitating in mid-air for a moment before tentatively ruffling those spiky white bangs. When he withdrew his hand ruby eyes bore piercingly up on him and the shy boy blushed, averting his gaze with a gentle mumble.

"I was… only returning the favor." Teeth glinted in a predatory grin, and the Canadian let out a faint squawk as he was pulled unceremoniously onto the bed and into a tight embrace with a set of boorish cackles resounding in his ears.

"Heh, heh, you're such a great person! Fitting for someone incredible like me!" Flushed only more at his sudden position sprawled ungracefully over the other, the boy just turned his cheek, that odd little curl springing out into the air as he hid a bashful smile against the other's chest.

"Of-Of course, yeah?"

"Oh, no! Alfred, what has that horrible man done to you?" The trilling cry of despair beat out all previous thoughts and even called the loudmouth brunet back from his proclamations, making the three of them blink towards the open door to the suite. Not a moment later a tall figure rushed in, seizing the American from atop his bed and plunging him into an unyielding embrace. The poor boy coughed, kicking his legs and trying to wriggle free to breathe.

"H-H-Hey, Nick!" He managed to rasp, lungs constricted as they were. Tearful amethyst eyes landed on him and he was squeezed, if possible, _harder._ Damn, but this guy had muscle!

"Alfred! How could you not tell me of this? I thought I was your friend!" The Russian wailed at him, swinging him around and cradling him close, the scarf he always seemed to wear fanning out in a circle behind him, twisting in the air. "Oh, Alfred! It is so cruel! He cannot get away with breaking your heart like this, _da?_" The blue-eyed American blinked, then stared up at the taller man, taken aback and momentarily forgetting his inability to properly breathe, due to the (now even) firm(er) hold he was currently encased in.

"Y-You? How do you—"

"Francis told me, kind man that he is! Now, Alfred—" Nikolai set him back on his feet and released him. He wobbled for a moment at the sudden lack of pressure, and the man set a steadying hand on each of his shoulders, gazing seriously down at him. "We must plan our next move." He blinked up at the guy, to that, raising a brow.

"…'We'? Hey, Nick, I appreciate your concern, but—" The taller guy beamed at him, fingers tightening on his shoulders a hint.

"Oh! You are right, Alfred. Perhaps we should go on a date, first? I hear the Japanese Garden on the outskirts of town is lovely this time of year. The leaves are changing so prettily, _da?_" He stared at him for a moment before laughing, and lifting his arms to knock the others' off.

"Huh, what? When'd I say I'd go on a date with you, Nick?" That creepily guileless smile surfaced once more, those glowing purple eyes slipping to happy crescents as the massive Russian tipped his head cutely to one side.

"Why, when you told me you had a date with your male friend, of course! Did it not go well? Did he not, as Francis so put it, 'break your heart'? You have no reason to see him again, _da?_" There was a little ache in the center of his chest at that, but he pushed past it with another grin, pointing a thumb at himself.

"Me? Heart-broken? Nah, you've gotta be kidding! A hero never gives up in the face of diversity!" There was a roll of red eyes ceiling-ward, one pale hand absently petting through the soft, curly locks of the boy yet propped atop him.

"That's _adversity_, wise-ass." An immediate snap of a retort followed.

"Shut up, Gil! Go make-out with your boyfriend somewhere else, I've got a grumpy Englishman to romance~!" A quiet squeak, and some half-hearted wriggling to try and escape from a quite comfortable resting spot ensued from that comment.

"W-We're not making-out… !" Two other occupants of the room found themselves staring as the usually-harsh German wrapped his arm more around the boy's back and pressed a tender kiss to the embarrassed man's temple, an unruffled reply murmured in a soothing and surprisingly sweet tone.

_"Keine Angst vor ihm haben, mein Liebchen. Er is einen Dummkopf."_

"Hey! I may not understand German, but I heard _'dumb'_! Whatsa matter, Gil, can't say it to my face?" Apparently a bit of sentimentality didn't soften the guy's typically sharp tongue when it was needed, though.

"You face, ha. That's something I could do without seeing for a while!" Alfred puffed up, yelling.

"_Argh!_ You're such a bad room mate!" At a dainty tug to his shirt, the white-haired boy returned his attention to the endearing person atop him, though.

"_Mon poulet, s'il vous plaît ne pas se moquer de lui… ?_" Somehow, the meek tone made everyone listen—despite the fact it was assured that at least two of the listeners didn't speak French (one never knew about those Russians, after all).

"You sound so sexy when you speak French, Mat. Does my German turn you on, too?" There was a pregnant pause, before that diffidently charming voice continued, the kid hiding his delicate blush against his boyfriend's shirt.

_"Bi-Bien sûr que non—! __N-Ne dis pas ces choses embarrassantes—"_

_"Meine Fresse! Du bist definitiv den_ _heißesten Bursche auf der ganzen Erde!" _There was another squeak, some suspicious rustling of cloth, then a very thick, (intentionally) muted silence.

"…So, Nick. Think we should leave about now?"

"A lovely idea, _lapochka_. We can plan our date~!"

"Oi, don't _you _start! And I told you I didn't agree to no date! _Hey!_"

: : :

He really should have expected it. No, he honestly should have. It was a little after one, about a week after his luncheon with Alfred-and there was the idiotic boy, himself, grinning at him and leaning over the counter as he attempted to get his reading done. It was after a few minutes of staring that he finally looked up through his reading glasses towards the teen, irritated.

"What, praytell, do _you_ want?" The boy just grinned wider, motioning for him to go.

"Just my mail, as usual, Artie! Is that so much to ask? Man, the service around here really sucks…" He whistled as the Brit threw down his stapled-together reading material, stomping off for the brat's dratted mailbox. Five-fourteen. He shook his head, dragging the mail out of its box and frowning as he found a package slip in there. Cursing under his breath, he stalked back to the yank, pointing at the screen.

"Sign here. You have a package in." To his great annoyance the boy ignored his command, only beaming up at him.

"Hey, Art, I've been thinkin'… before I do that, I gotta tell you something." He scowled towards the divvy plonker, hissing a little and slapping a palm on the counter, leaning over it a bit and pointing up at the taller student.

"I don't care for anything you've to say. I've already told you you're not my type. Just sign the stupid screen and leave me in peace!" He ended up shouting that last bit a hint louder than he'd initially intended, but the other seemed to care less, just waving a hand as though to dismiss Arthur's opinions. His blood boiled. Had the lad no sense of common _decency_?

"Well, tough, 'cause I'm goin' to tell ya anyway." He smiled, and Arthur clenched his hand around the packing slip, wrinkling it a little. He turned, the mail clerk snarling over his shoulder as he approached the door to the back room.

"Just sign the stupid thing!"

A few minutes later he was tapping his fingers impatiently atop the damned package, _still _waiting for the boy to sign the electronic box buzzing in front of him. Alfred refused, though, and his expression darkened further before the Brit moodily shot his gaze to the side, an unhappy blush willing its way across his face.

"Oh, fine. Just say it, you tosser." He snapped at last, finally acknowledging that the damned boy wouldn't sign it—and thus, wouldn't leave—without saying whatever rubbish he had to say, first. Damn that he couldn't just walk away, due to his shift. Damn that he was essentially trapped here. Damn that—

"So what're you doin' for Thanksgiving, Art? Goin' home?" He blinked after a moment, then frowned, crossing his arms over his chest and looking haughtily away.

"You Americans! Not everyone in the world celebrates that holiday, you know!" He heard a gasp of surprise and peered back out of the corner of his eye to see that the American's expression had fallen to one of utter shock.

"W-What? How can you not celebrate Thanksgiving! It's the second-biggest holiday of the—"

"_Think_, for a moment, just exactly what Thanksgiving celebrates, you blooming moron!" He tapped his fingers over the bend in his elbow impatiently, watching as the boy's face turned thoughtful.

"Well… it's about family, and getting-together, and eating a lot of food… Oh, and in elementary school we learned about the Indians and the Puritans celebrating surviving living in the New World for—" He went silent, then, blinking and smiling sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. Arthur smirked.

"There, you see?"

"Oh, yeah, then I guess it makes sense you don't celebrate Thanksgiving in England…" He sniffed, nodding and pointing once more towards the screen.

"Yes, well, just because we don't celebrate it doesn't mean I won't let the autumn holiday go to waste, you know!" Alfred blinked at him again, but thankfully reached for the stylus and began to scrawl his name, looking at it as he spoke.

"Huh, yeah? You're going home, then?" His face reddened and he barked a defensive response.

"O-Of course not, you twit! Hopping over the pond isn't so cheap that we can waste the money for a bloody five days off! I—" He snapped his mouth shut, eyes widening as the yank's surprised gaze locked with his, and he hastily turned away, leaving the idiot's package on the counter and quickly kneeling to rifle through his backpack. There wasn't anything he needed in there, just a distraction.

"Art… are you—"

"I'm perfectly fine, thank you, it's just my family can't afford to waste funds on—" Oh, bollocks, he'd let it slip again! He bit his lip, pulling out a random notebook and striding back over to the desk, frowning to cover his discomfort and bringing an angry gaze to the staring brunet's concerned face.

"Arthur—"

"Well! You've got your mail and signed for it, now kindly get out of my sight!" With a huff he sat down, pushing his spectacles up on his nose and narrowing his eyes towards the notebook in his hands, opening it to a random page and beginning to read. He heard a sigh, and promptly ignored the lad as he leaned over the counter, dropping his voice a notch or two.

"I… know what you said, but I'm not going to give up on you." Then, bold as you please, there was a brief sensation of soft warmth on his cheek and he snapped his gaze up.

"What are you—!" The yank pulled back, smiling at him—only it was a little different, a wee bit more tentative than his usual loud grins—before taking his box and tucking it under an arm, turning and raising his free hand to wave behind him.

"See ya, Art." He was left to ponder over the slight flush to his cheeks and how his fingers drew up to touch the spot Alfred's lips had rested upon not moments before. He regained himself a moment later, though, dropping his hand quickly and glaring fiercely at the neatly-scribbled notes before him with a muttered curse.

_Stupid yank. He didn't listen to a word I said!_

: : :

The next two weeks passed by rather quietly, and the poppy he'd worn on Remembrance Day during the second week of the month slowly deteriorated. The weather was turning a bit too cold, so he'd had to forgo his weekly Saturday football sessions—but Alfred stopped by every Friday at the mailroom, as usual, and he'd try to initiate a conversation that Arthur would rudely brush off. Still, the American rambled on and on about this and that—sometimes thoughtlessly about his upcoming 'vacation', but more often than not it related to complaints about his schoolwork and how everything was suddenly being unloaded _right before_ their autumn break. To that, the Brit had merely rolled his eyes and interjected with something sarcastic and cutting.

Of course, he could feel the brunt of it, as well. The semester was slowly winding down, what with their winter holiday beginning at the end of the second full week of December. His professors were trying to squeeze in anything last-minute that they'd forgotten to cover in the short amount of time. He even had a paper due the Monday after the autumn holiday ('Thanksgiving break', to the blasted Americans)—but he'd most certainly get it done as, unlike the other students, he was staying near the campus for it. But the late start on their winter holiday left only a few days before Christmas, which was rather inconvenient to say the least! He wouldn't be heading home this time, either. It really did cost too much to fly back to Britain from here he currently was—he hadn't been home for Christmas since his first freshman year. Back then, the uni had kicked everyone out of the dorms as soon as the holiday 'officially' started, so his family had had to dip into its savings in order to get him home. It'd been… nice, he supposed, to see his brothers Ken and Ron and his dear sister Adie. They'd been doing well—or, as well as could be hoped—but he hadn't had the chance to see them, since. That very summer he'd managed to sublet an apartment near the campus and snagged a job nearby to pay for the rent and other utilities. He set aside as much as he could, though. But for his siblings…

The situation was rather depressing for all of them, yet they understood that Arthur had been very lucky to land an admission to such a prestigious college in America and certainly made no less of a nuisance of themselves by posting various irritating comments on his Wall. They argued back and forth, trying to pretend that they were only separated by a few thin walls instead of an entire sea. Adie tried to call when she could, but her work schedule and the time difference made it hard. He'd belled her back that time he'd missed her call while playing football with Alfred, being sure to check with her ahead of time with a few messages to her on Facebook. They'd chatted about a few things, and he might've mentioned the American, but she just laughed and poked fun at him for being so shy. Shy about what? Goodness, he'd forgotten that she could be just as obnoxious as their brothers, although she tended to be a shade kinder about some things.

So time passed, and ran by, and it came to the Monday that marked the end of the month. He'd managed to buy his siblings their Christmas presents early (thanks to much scrimping and saving, for many months), and was indeed wrapping one of Ken's at the moment when his mobile rang.

"_But if you must lie and deceit. And trample people under your feet—(don't you know it is wrong!)—to cheat the trying man—(don't you know it is wrong!)—to cheat a __**tryin' **__man. You betta stop. It is the wrong 'em boyo!"_ **[1]**

He cast a glance towards it, frowning softly as he recognized the specialized tone and thought of the time. It was sometime after ten here, and that meant three in the morning in London! He finished applying a rectangle of tape to the present before him before moving to pick up his mobile and put it to his ear.

"_Hey! The wrong 'em boyo—" _**[1]**

"Ken? What do you—" He heard quite a bit of noise in the background, something that sounded like yelling before a breathless voice came over the line.

_"Hey, Art? You there? It's Ron, he's—"_ His heart stopped in his chest, green eyes widening as his hearing slowly muted itself, like his brother's words came to him through a roll of cotton. _"—accident—driving home—critical—" _Arthur scolded himself and forced himself to listen to Ken's ramblings, once more._ "Oh god, I know I've never been the best brother to you but Adie's talking to the nurses and Ron's—Ron's—"_

"I-It's all right, Ken. Thank you for ringing me." Was that his voice? It couldn't be his voice, so calm, so blank. His mind was running in circles, and he placed a hand on the table before him, leaning heavily against it. "I-It… will he be all right?"

_"Haha, Ard, of course—-it's Ron, he'll be fine!"_ That laughter was too nervous, despite the old childhood nickname, and he imagined his red-haired sibling running a hand back through his wild frizz. _"I-I mean, the NHS, right? Better 'n those stupid yanks where you are! Heheheh…"_ Arthur sighed, taking a slow breath, voice quiet.

"R-Right. Thanks, Ken. Could I speak to Adie for a moment?" There was a bit of shuffling.

_"S-Sure, here—"_ Her slightly-harried voice came on, next.

_"Arthur?"_

"Hello, Adie." He closed his eyes, imagining her face and wishing he was right there beside them. She was strong, and he was proud of that, but in such times of distress it was always comforting to have family around. Just as, at the moment, he— "How do things look?" He heard a sigh, reflected as buzz over the speaker.

_ "He's… he's in bad shape, Arthur. They took him in a while ago, but we won't know anything until he gets out of critical care…" _He nodded, tone falling to a mere whisper.

"I see… it's that bad? What happened?" She snorted, and his lips twitched in an aborted smile.

_"Some blooming idiot ran a light, crashed into the car while Ron was driving home. He's… got lots of injuries. Won't be able to work for a while…" _He held his breath, inhaling quickly.

"Are—Are you going to be all right?" She laughed, and he felt himself relax a little.

_ "Y-Yeah! We've got enough saved away to tide us over and help with your next semester—that bill's coming soon, isn't it?"_ He almost smiled again, although it wasn't quite as fond as the last one. He hated being such a burden on them, but his job here wasn't exactly enough to pay for tuition. He was lucky he even attended uni, at all, being the only one out of his siblings to. His mailroom job paid for other things such as rent, electricity, gas, food… although Ren helped with that, too, as they shared the costs. Still, it was hard. Thank god for national healthcare, though. If such a thing were to happen here—

"_We've got it covered on our end, Art. You just worry about getting your degree, right? It's just… you're our brother, you know, we couldn't leave you out—" _He laughed a little, opening his eyes again and ignoring the burning sensation in the corners of them.

"H-Heh, yes, well—thank you for thinking of me…" He heard more yelling in the background, and then the shuffling of some papers. His sister sounded annoyed when she spoke again.

_"Look, I'm sorry, but these blasted nurses are—"_

"No, no, it's fine. Off you go, then. Er, you… Take care." Her voice softened, then, and it warmed his heart a little.

_"Art, don't worry about us. Everything will be fine. You just focus on your studies. T-Take care." _And the line went dead.

He stared at it in his hand, for a while. Then there was a light tap on his shoulder and he jumped, eyes snapping behind him to—oh, Ren. He tried a smile, but the concerned look on his flat mate's face only deepened, dark brown eyes narrowing slightly.

"…Arthur-san? Is everything all right?" To this he almost laughed, and tried a light smile.

"Y-Yes of course. Nothing to worry about. Excuse me, I must finish wrapping these—" And he turned around, set his mobile aside and went back to folding the paper around Ken's present, biting the inside of his cheek and glaring firmly down at the package. He would not cry. Everything would be fine. Breaking down would achieve nothing at all. But one selfish thought persisted.

_I really don't need this on top of everything else._

: : :

**[1] **– Wrong 'em Boyo (by The Clash)

_Oops, angst. I'm sorry? x.o;; …Erm, yes. Scene poll's still up, people! Check my profile!_

_Also have a few new little Hetalia fics up (mostly US/UK/US). Reviews would be… just lovely. :3 -Fox_


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